More Than Just Thorns
by LadyNyxRavus
Summary: A series of drabbles in no particular order. Glimpse into the life of the Princess Rosalyn as she grows up, takes the throne, amuses Reaver, and deals with the obstacles fate - and one nosy seer - are determined to thrust in her way. EvilPrincess
1. Meeting Industry

**AN: I think it's been literal years since I last posted anything. I can't say that I've been working on much other than university essays, but I _have_ been writing a few things. This is going to be a series of interconnected pieces in no particular order from the realm of Fable 3. Please review (not that anyone actually listens to authors when they ask, but it's a formality at this point, I would say) and _please_ don't ask me about my other fics in any reviews I may get. PM me if you really want, but you won't be getting any more information about them than you already know. **

**Disclaimer: Fable 3 is the property of Lionhead Studios; I'm just borrowing it for entertainment purposes. **

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**Meeting Industry**

The Queen had always been mildly amused by her daughter even as she groomed her son intently for the throne. The Queen was not precisely a kind ruler; she had been a member of the Temple of Shadows for a long time and had only thwarted them because she was highly possessive of a certain Temple of Light monk who would have been devastated to see the Temple fall to ruin. She was a fiercely devoted monarch, however, and viewed her kingdom as something to be guarded jealously from all others – akin to a jewel, was the kingdom to its Queen, and one that she wanted displayed to its best advantage.

So the people loved their Queen despite the twin black horns that poked up through her pale blonde hair and the blood-red crimson of her eyes. Under her rule, Albion prospered and if the Queen would occasionally leave her castle and return splattered in blood, then the people would overlook it.

The man she eventually took as her husband and King-consort was a rather plain man from a middle-class family named Andrew. He was well-liked by the castle staff and even the nobles could find very little to complain about. The Queen did not share her bed with him, of course, but the servants reported that she visited his quarters often enough and only rarely made use of any of the other consorts she filtered through the castle as was her right as the ruling monarch.

After the birth of her son, the Queen ceased bringing in lesser consorts and instead focussed on her dearest Logan. The young boy rarely spent time away from her side and she always kept a watchful eye over any interaction the boy had with the King. Andrew, for his part, took the suspicion of his wife amicably. He never pressed her to spend time with his son and he never said a single jealous word when she resumed her habit of bringing in her consorts.

Logan was halfway through his tenth year when industry came to the forefront of Bowerstone. His mother, the Hero Queen, had blinked curiously when Walter mentioned that someone had bought up the massive manor she'd sold off at Bower Lake and had apparently painted it an awful bright pink. Logan, at his mother's feet on the dais, had looked up to see the mostly faded will-lines begin to glow an electric blue and curl about her face and along the strange black markings near her eyes and horns.

"My manor, you say?" she murmured in the tone that meant she knew more than she was letting on and Walter had best just do whatever it was she asked him to do next. "Bring me the man behind the industry that has ensnared my Albion."

Logan had seen his mother's lips curl into a smirk and he'd been genuinely frightened for the first time in his young life.

The man Walter brought before his Queen just a week later was like no-one he'd ever seen before. Impossibly taller than even his mother wearing white lined with black fur, black gloves, and a ridiculously tall black top-hat that made him positively tower over everyone. He carried a long cane which he twirled absently as Logan's mother tittered a high, trill sort of laughter with the eerie _deep_ echo that underscored her voice and gave it a sort of cavernous quality.

Walter eyed his Queen askance but introduced her regardless. "Reaver of Reaver Industries presented to Queen Sparrow and King-Consort Andrew."

The man raised a single eyebrow at the name of the Queen's husband and she snorted inelegantly and started chuckling again. Logan blinked at his mother warily and almost jumped when she abruptly turned to her husband and said bluntly, but not unkindly, "Leave us. Take Walter with you."

Logan made a small noise and sat very still and frowned when the man, Reaver, titled his head to peer at him with a smirk so reminiscent of his mother's that he shivered slightly. Walter grudgingly left with the King just behind and so only the Queen, her son, and Reaver were left in the throne room.

"Really, my dear: Andrew?"

"I hardly picked him for his name alone, you great pompous pirate," Sparrow drawled, startling her son with the undercurrent of dark amusement in her voice. "I picked him because he was relatively attractive and healthier than a great many people I have met. He isn't unintelligent either; good breeding for my son." Here she inclined her head towards Logan and the young boy shrank a little under the combined stare of his mother and her apparent acquaintance.

"You've spawned a brat then? Oh I _am_ sorry I missed the _act_ of spawning it, at the very least. You simply _must_ invite me next time, pretty little Sparrow."

Sparrow snorted and then she was on her feet and prodding the man in the chest and he was drawing a pistol from _nowhere_ and it was at her temple and Logan gasped when the air around them cracked and sparked as long-dormant Will rose to the Queen's call. The two stood like that, Reaver with a gun to his mother's head, and his mother with a great ball of lightning hovering just near his heart. After a long, horrifying moment, the man sighed theatrically and stuffed the pistol into a holster at his hip and his mother was smoothing some of the long blonde hair that had escaped and become frazzled in her gathering of Will.

"Reaver, you've not changed at all," she told him with a huffy little sigh.

"I could hardly mess with perfection," he said haughtily. Dark eyes gleamed from beneath wisps of dark brown hair as the man stared at the Queen before him. "You, on the other hand, look very much _older_ than I remember."

"I'm sixty now. That's rather old for the rest of the world, you know?" His mother didn't look a day over thirty, of course, but her hips were wider and her curves curvier after the birth of her child and she seemed pleased to keep things that way. "Logan, go practice with Walter." Logan started at his name and his mother glanced down when she didn't immediately hear him leave. "I said, go!" she snapped. It was an order and the Queen was _always_ to be obeyed.

He leapt to his feet and ran off but not before he saw his mother cock her hip to one side and set one hand propped at her side while reaching out to finger the fur at Reaver's lapels. The man, for his part, had put his cane out to tap gently at the unoccupied side of the Queen's hips and was speaking in a low voice. Logan didn't want to see anymore and shut his eyes tightly, running off to find Walter.

Reaver left that evening and settled in his mother's former Manor as his company quickly became the leader of Bowerstone industry. Princess Rosalyn – called Rose – was born a little under a year later. She was welcomed with the grandest party Logan had ever seen and his mother had smirked when she'd introduced the infant to Reaver and laughingly told him that her precious Rose thanked him for the effluent affair he'd thrown in her honour.

Logan did _not_ like the way Reaver watched his mother and sister for the rest of the night. He spent the evening dragging his father around and clinging to his mother's side asking to see his sister. His mother's amused quirk of her lips meant she knew precisely what he was doing but she simply went along with it and obligingly passed her daughter back and forth between herself, her husband and her son whenever Logan wanted.

When the Party was done and Reaver was announcing that it would continue at his home, if anyone wished, Logan watched in silent horror as his mother carried Rose (_his_ baby sister!) over to bid their host farewell. The tall man smirked roguishly and tweaked the baby's nose, glancing once at Logan as he did so, before dipping into an extravagant bow before the Queen. Sparrow watched him go with a somehow fond smile before she gathered Logan to her side and put her children to bed.

**End**


	2. Posessions

**AN: And it's time to meet the Princess. Huzzah!**

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**Possessions**

Logan's sister was not like other children. With their mother focussed on her son's learning, Rose seemed to fall out of his mother's notice. She spent much of her time with the great black and white beast of a dog that accompanied the Queen everywhere. The dog's name was Wolf, after the beast he most resembled. Rose and Wolf wandered the Castle and the grounds so often that Rose could effectively sneak up on anyone (excluding their mother, of course) without being noticed unless she announced her presence.

He could remember when Rose was first introduced to Eliot – the boy his mother had chosen for her daughter's playmate. The dark-haired little girl had stared in silence for a while before turning and asking, "What is he?"

Not who is he? _What_ is he? Either Sparrow didn't notice or she didn't care, "He's your new playmate."

Rose made a small noise of comprehension and inspected the boy. Not just looked at, but swept her gaze over him from head to toe as though she were inspecting one of the new paintings put up. "He's mine?"

Her mother's lips curled. "Yes."

"Alright." Rose smiled at the boy and grabbed his hand. "Let's go play in the gardens. You can meet Wolf."

Logan thought of Wolf's tendency to snarl viciously at people other than Rosalyn and his mother and cringed visibly. His sister's laughter was wicked and knowing as she vanished around the corner with the younger boy in tow. Sparrow hummed thoughtfully and glanced at her son sideways. "Something bothering you, Logan?"

"No mother," he murmured.

She reached up and tapped one of her horns idly before she spoke again. "You are afraid of your sister."

"What?" He gaped. "No! Of course not! I love Rose." His sister was his dearest friend and he _hated_ to share her with this new child even though he knew his training would necessitate a companion for the girl.

Sparrow's crimson eyes gleamed. "You should know better than to lie to me, love," she purred. "You are frightened of your sister, though you may not know it, and rightfully so. You and she are destined for great things but it is _her_ destiny that shall be truly terrible."

Her voice was ringing a little. That deep echo that made her voice a frightful thing. Logan stared at his mother and knew that she had spoken to Theresa recently. His dreams had been all of the Spire lit up from within and his mother's glowing red eyes and his sister's wicked, wicked laughter.

"Logan, I will not tell you what I know," his mother was entirely too perceptive as she responded almost absently to his faraway look, "but you will do one thing for me. You will love your sister; you will cherish her and protect her and you _will_ love her even as you fear her. Family, Logan, is all that matters. Though in your case, all that matters is your sister. Care not for the rest of the world, so long as she is safe. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes mother," he murmured. Her arm came out and curled around his neck, ruffling his hair affectionately as she pressed a kiss to his temple and let her horns bump his head gently. "You hardly need to order me to love Rosalyn; she is the most perfect girl in the world."

"Aye, she is," his mother hummed happily, satisfaction coating her voice like syrup. "And you, my child, are the most perfect son I could have ever hoped for. Now, we have swordplay to practice, if I remember my schedule correctly?"

Jasper, standing off to the side, shifted just enough to draw attention to himself. "Yes, your majesty. I have cleared the afternoon for weaponry training for yourself and Prince Logan."

"Ah, excellent. Thank you, Jasper," the Queen smiled benignly at her butler and tugged at her son. "Let's go out to the gardens today. Perhaps Rose will enjoy seeing her brother sparring with her mum, hm?"

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Rose had frightened Eliot with Wolf and laughingly brushed off his fear of the snarling dog as she nuzzled her face into the thick ruff of fur. Wolf turned his head and pressed his nose to her cheek, huffing hot breaths on her face, before he gently mouthed her hand and wandered off. Eliot had watched him go but he hadn't run off screaming (a common sight on the days where the staff was reviewed by the Queen – the ones that ran off screaming were replaced, obviously).

Satisfied that her new playmate wasn't a complete coward, Rose showed him the long winding steps up the side of the castle that led to her bedroom. "Mother didn't want her children living in the old section of the castle. I used to stay in the nursery off of mother's chambers but she let me pick whichever room I wanted after father died."

The guards snapped into sharp salutes as she passed, prompting Eliot to gasp a little each time, but she ignored them. She opened the door to her room and gestured inside imperiously. "This is my room. There's a secret passage behind the bookshelf that leads into the Castle proper but only mother uses it."

Wolf made a low noise somewhere between a bark and a growl and she turned to see the massive dog staring at her from the end of the long walkway to her room. She tilted her head curiously and raced down after him, ignoring the child behind her that scrambled to keep up after a brief debate over whether or not to close the bedroom door.

Rose ran into the courtyard to find her brother sparring with her mother. Her mother's blond hair was bound in a tight braid that ran down her back and swished with each fierce motion. The Queen was not known for her particularly elegant fighting style. Her motions were like fire: fierce, powerful, and wildly unpredictable. She had taught her son some of the finer aspects of swordplay but, as Rose let her eyes trail across her brother's form, she could tell he would never be the swordsman their mother was.

Logan fought like the earth. His motions were steady and controlled. Each shift in stance helped him keep his balance under the onslaught of his opponent's attacks. Where his mother attacked with a viciousness that had earned her the title of Executioner in her youth, Logan's style was designed to weather through the fury and attack when his opponent grew tired.

Of course, his style was useless against the Hero Queen. Still, she tempered her attacks to his abilities, allowing him the occasional strike and calling out corrections. Rose felt Eliot come to stand nearby and ignored his hushed gasps of delight at the spar before them. She wasn't sure if this playmate was to her liking yet.

"Your brother is very good," he said unexpectedly. Rose blinked in surprise, turning golden brown eyes on the boy curiously. Eliot looked nervous under her stare but explained, "His stance is perfect; if it weren't the Queen against him, he would have won several times over by now."

Rose shuffled her skirts in a motion her Governess would have told her was childish and inappropriate. Her mother always smirked and made it a point to join her daughter at lesson times in her most revealing trousers – the kind that laced up the sides and ended up revealing two strips of skin right up to her hips – when Rose explained the latest lessons on proper fashion for a princess.

The Princess cared for her mother. She truly did. However, her love lay with her brother. She adored Logan and knew that her brother felt he would not be able to step into his mother's role when the Queen passed away. The Queen was almost seventy, after all, nearly two generations amongst the majority of her people. Rose had read enough history books to know that there were only a handful of people who could possibly remember her mother as she was before she was Queen.

Rose settled her gaze back on her brother and smiled. "Logan is a solid swordsman but he has none of mother's fire."

"It isn't necessarily a bad thing, you know," Eliot said. "Begging your pardon, Princess, but your mother has ruled for a long time and has been a wonderful first monarch. Prince Logan has the sense to make Albion a solid power again."

Her attention sharpened. She removed her gaze from her family and focussed completely on the boy before her. She had inspected him before and found him worthy of a moment's notice. Now, however, Rosalyn inspected him properly.

He was her age and from a middle-class family, if his accent was to be judged. He had likely been an only child and so his parents had been able to afford a good tutor – perhaps one trained in Brightwall Academy. His hair was brown and he wore the sort of clothing afforded to most of the castle pages. He was a ward of the Crown, then, Rosalyn decided. He approved of the monarchy because it had given him a comfortable life. Wolf had only scared him so he had passed that test well enough, and he recognized Logan's potential as well as she did.

Her lips curled and Rose got to her feet. "You're smarter than you look," she told him. "Come on, let's go see if we can get Walter to teach us some swordplay." Eliot looked excited and she led him on a merry chase through the grounds in search of the older soldier, eyes bright and settling Eliot firmly in her mind as a friend and playmate rather than a play_thing _as she had meant to do from the beginning.

**End.**


	3. Health

**AN: I'm glad people actually seem to like my "evil" Queen/Princess. I've actually added more pieces to what I already had written just to include more of the Queen and the Princess interacting. The Queen is based on my evil/pure Hero in Fable 2. It always amused me that they could be evil but people would still love them for not being corrupt. Fable 3 fixed that a little but seemed to make it a little more...I'm going to go with "fairytale good and evil" since none of the options you have in the end are actually "good" or "bad" - they're just two different ways to deal with one problem. **

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**Health**

"Mother," Princess Rosalyn said formally as she dipped into a polite curtsey.

"Daughter," Queen Sparrow replied with a slow curl to the corner of her lips. "How are you today?"

"There's a new maid," Rose made a gesture towards her perfectly curled ringlets and seemed pleased. "She's very good with hair."

"So I see," Sparrow inclined her head and motioned for the little girl to join her on the throne. Rose climbed into her mother's lap and let her head rest against the soft fur lapels of her mother's coat. "Is that all you wanted?"

"Logan is sick."

Sparrow peered at her daughter expectantly. The little girl did not seem inclined toward explanation and so the Hero looked up at the hovering Jasper.

"It seems, Your Majesty, that His Highness has come down with the flu. He has been treated and is resting currently." Jasper bowed during his explanation and looked up only when he had finished talking.

The Princess raised her head and frowned. "He's sick," she repeated as though annoyed that her statement had to be confirmed. "_Why?_"

"Why is he sick?" Her mother asked for clarification.

"No." Rosalyn frowned "Logan is sick because he's stupid and followed me into the rain. Why aren't _I_ sick?"

The Queen blinked slowly at her daughter. After a moment of thought, she reached up and scratched idly at the base of her horns. "What an interesting question."

"I know," said Rose. "Would Mister Samuel know?"

"Why would you think Samuel would know the answer?" Sparrow asked as she stroked her daughter's hair gently.

The Princess was quiet for a long while. "He has the library," she said finally. "But, I think that maybe he doesn't know. Do you know, mama?"

"'Fraid not, little one," Sparrow drawled. The Queen's eyes were bright rubies with pinpricks of midnight and matched the hungry gaze of Wolf at her side. The old dog rumbled low in his throat and cracked open one eye to peer at his mistress slyly. "Hey what?" she glanced at her dog. "Now why would I want to do that?"

The dog chuffed at her and stretched like a cat as he lumbered to his paws. Jasper made a small noise of concealed fright but otherwise didn't move. Walter, hovering behind the throne, muttered darkly under his breath. The Princess squirmed until the Queen released her and then scrambled over to Wolf's side. She clutched fistfuls of his fur and he mouthed at her arm absently – smearing saliva over the silk of her little red shirt.

"Come now, little Rosie," Sparrow announced, stretching lethargically and adjusting her pistol at her hip. "We're going to go visit an old friend of mummy's, aye?"

Rosalyn frowned suspiciously. "Who?"

"It's a surprise." The Queen grinned and tapped her daughter's nose and smirked at the annoyance on the little girl's face. "Just a quick trip to Bower Lake, aye, and we'll be back in time for dinner."

The place her mother took the Princess to was a colourful camp of gypsies. Their skin was dark – far darker than any the Princess had ever seen before – and she stared at them openly. The Queen waved cheerfully at the two men guarding the gate and told the carriage driver to wait for them. The impeccably dressed woman who drove the carriage stood by the horses heads – frowning in distaste at the scruffy gypsy horses, decorated with ribbons and beads, grazing nearby, tossing their heads and rolling around in the dirt.

"Hey yeah," Sparrow greeted as her daughter frowned thoughtfully at the grazing horses, "want to let an old woman in?"

"Don't look so old to me, granny," the younger boy called down.

Rosalyn stared at him flatly. "I didn't know hobbes could talk," she said primly. Sparrow tossed a delighted look at the little girl and laughed heartily.

The youth sputtered indignantly and the other guard just shook his head. "Stupid boy," he cuffed the youth and made a motion over his shoulder for the gate to be opened. There was a creaking as the wood was pulled back on its hinges and he bowed down to the Queen of Albion. "'Lo there, Sparrow."

"'Lo yourself, Jim," she grinned and started through into the camp. "If you aren't careful, I'm going to be outliving you too; from the way you're favouring your right side, yeah?"

"Can't all be Heroes, girl," he called to her retreating back.

Sparrow just laughed and ushered her daughter along. Rosalyn tilted her head and peered around wildly. Then her attention was caught and she was at the tattoo stall watching intently as the heavily inked male worked on a delicate swirling design.

"Does it hurt?" she asked the woman getting the tattoo. The woman grimaced a little and nodded before abruptly going pale as Sparrow came up behind her daughter. The tattooist's eyes widened but he continued to work with surprisingly steady hands for all that they shook like leaves. Rosalyn watched with wide eyes that narrowed quickly. "You _like_ being hurt?"

"It's about the design," her mother informed her. "The pain is just temporary."

"Oh." Rosalyn inspected the design and watched excess ink get wiped away. The water pail nearby was an odd copper colour and she tilted her head. "It bleeds too?"

"A little," her mother allowed, watching the tattooist at work, "not enough to need bandaging though."

"Is it healthy?" Rosalyn whirled and stared at her mother. "Bleeding's not _healthy_," she added in an accusatory tone.

Her mother hummed. "Would you like one?"

Rose blinked and tilted her head to peer sideways at the grimacing woman and then at the paintings on the walls. "They're all wrong," she muttered darkly. "Flowers aren't _black_."

"No then," her mother tugged at her hand gently. "Let's meet my friend now, right? She'll answer your question."

"About the tattoos?"

"About your brother," Sparrow corrected. "Theresa's at the last caravan on the hill, over the gate."

Rose followed the line of her mother's outstretched arm and stepped away from the stall. The pair wandered up the hill and Rosalyn continued inspecting the camp. People alternately shied away from the Queen or waved in greeting with smiles. The Queen ignored them and continued on their way until they came to stand before the last caravan.

It was different. Rose frowned and then said "Oh!" very clearly. Of course it was different. It had a door. She wondered if it was to keep people out. The woman that emerged made her smile. Red was her mother's favourite colour as well.

"Hello, little Sparrow."

"Hey yeah, Theresa" her mother replied evenly.

"Rosalyn has a question for me, I understand?" The woman's head turned in Rose's direction and she blinked at the pale, pale eyes and the dark, dark skin and the slow curve to her lips.

"Is Logan really my brother?" she asked. The Queen blinked slowly and scratched the base of her horns idly, crimson eyes glinting as she watched her daughter and the Seer interact. "He's sick and I'm not. Wolf doesn't like him. He _hates_ blood."

"He cannot be different _and_ be your brother?" Theresa asked mildly.

Rosalyn's eyes were flooded with gold from the late midday sun. Her ridiculous sausage curls bounced around her face and she frowned at the Seer. Wolf paced behind her and his tongue lolled out in a gleaming lupine smirk. "He's sick," she repeated as though it explained everything.

"It happens."

"Not to me." The Princess stared flatly and crossed her little arms expectantly. "Not to mother."

"Is that what you want?" Theresa's bangles clinked gently as she held out a hand for the little girl to take. Rosalyn put out her hands and let the blind woman turn them this way and that and feel them gently. "To be sick?"

"I _never_ want to be sick," Rose returned with a scoff. "I just want Logan to stop being sick."

"I see," Theresa said, ignoring the sudden chuckle from Sparrow and addressing the Queen. "Logan is ill," she told her.

"I know," Sparrow frowned and scratched at the base of one horn as she eyed the Seer warily. Then her scarlet eyes narrowed into faint slits. "Oh."

"It will not be as extravagant," the Seer continued calmly. "It will not happen at all if you agree to trade."

The Queen was silent for a long time. Wolf snarled and thrust his head into her hand, fixing his eyes on the watchful Princess, and pressing against the Hero's leg. "Mine for mine, aye?" Sparrow muttered. "Keep an eye out for the pup then; what'll you need?"

"Just a little of a horn should do it," Theresa said.

Will-lines glowed and the queen drew a burning fingernail across one of her horns and the tip dropped to the ground. Wolf picked it up in his mouth and carried it to the outstretched hands of the Seer.

"Let's go visit your brother before supper, aye little Rosie?"

Rosalyn followed her mother back to the carriage and pointedly did not question what on earth her mother and the Seer had been talking about. Wolf growl-purred at her until she dug her fingers into his thick fur and pulled out the clumps of winter growth matting his summer coat. Her mother watched with hooded crimson eyes all the way back and vanished into her study for the rest of the night without even stopping in to visit her son.

Rosalyn tugged at her brother's blankets primly when she went into the room. Her eyes reflected the fireplace roaring nearby and Wolf jumped up beside her on the bed to stare fixedly at her fussing. "Go _away_, Rose," Logan rasped, coughing into his pillow and peering at her blearily. "You'll get sick."

"Don't be stupid, Logan," she cooed. "I don't get sick. Just focus on getting well again; I shan't tell you about the gypsies if you don't."

The Prince was very like the Princess in curiosity. The temptation of a story and the smug secretive grin had him forcing down food the next day and not a week later he was up and about – bothering his sister for the full telling of her day-trip. The Queen watched in fond amusement and carefully added a teaspoon of honey and a dash of lemon to her usually black tea at breakfast, her oddly roughened voice adding details where the Princess glossed over.

**End.**


	4. Rain

**AN: Just a reminder: these may be in order currently, but they aren't necessarily a fixed order. So, just because the Queen dies _doesn't _mean that she may not turn up again later. That's all really. I rather like this part the most of what I've written (and not just because I got to write more of Reaver). **

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**Rain**

It was raining the day the Hero Queen died. Despite the Queen's ridiculously advanced age, it still came as a shock to her people and her children. At least, it came as a shock to her son who had holed up in the castle and refused to move into the Royal Suite as was expected.

Rosalyn, however, was eerily unsurprised. She was a calm spectre in the midst of the panic that the castle had become. In fact, the Princess had haughtily informed the staff that if they could not contain themselves in her or her brother's presence, then they would no longer be welcome in the castle. She had even sent her closest companion, Eliot, to stay with his family until after the funeral and subsequent formal coronation.

Jasper – her butler now that Logan was to be King – had questioned that decision only to receive, "Well I could hardly expect him to stay in the very place she _died_ in, now could I?" as an explanation. That she had no problem doing the same went without comment.

The Princess had adopted sombre greys and deep blue tones for her wardrobe during the mourning period. She'd even convinced Jasper to help her put blue highlights into her hair to continue the theme. The Princess, at just barely fourteen years of age, was perhaps the single person in the castle managing to maintain any sense of decorum whatsoever.

Rose was utterly sick of it all. She was dressed in grey tights with a matching short skirt trimmed in dark blue with only the barest minimum of white lace-lined petticoats peaking from beneath. Her blouse was all dark blue with gold stitching and white collar and cuffs. Her tall black boots had the slightest of heels and shiny gold buckles across the tops of her feet. She'd opted for no headdress and instead had her hair done up in an elaborate braided bun at the back of her head. Revealing all of her neck and the rather flirty neckline that showed off her decidedly blossoming bosom would have no doubt gotten her scolded had anyone been in their right minds but currently served no purpose.

It was the utter lack of attention to her carefully selected behaviours that annoyed her the most. She had broken down and sent the bulk of the servants away, keeping only a skeleton crew to keep the castle maintained.

That no one was bothering to ask the King – her brother – what to do was perhaps even _more_ annoying.

"Your Highness," came the low drawl from the door to the study the Princess had chosen to curl up in. She looked over and smiled broadly at the man standing there in pristine white, as usual.

"Reaver!" she rose to her feet and crossed the room, holding out her hands. Reaver towered over her but carefully took her hands in his own and bowed slightly over them, flashing a quick smirk. "I had hoped you would come," she informed him quietly, shooting a glance out the door to the forlorn guard standing there. Reaver flicked his cane behind him casually and the door slammed shut.

Rose gestured to the couch and chairs invitingly and took her former place curled at the end of the couch. Reaver crossed his legs elegantly, leaning his cane against the couch as he joined her, setting his tall hat between them carefully. She reached out to finger the goggles absently and he smirked at her again.

"Indeed, Princess, I had scarcely even made it halfway home before I heard the _deplorable_ news and simply _had_ to rush to the Castle immediately," the man spoke in italics, which amused Rose to no end, and she relaxed at the familiar exaggeration and lilting accent. She hummed lightly in acknowledgement.

Her mother had been ill the past year or so and had cut her adventuring down to almost nothing. In what Rose suspected was an attempt to match his rapidly declining mother's accomplishments, Logan had taken to journeying across Albion and taking long voyages at sea. As such, Rose was often left with only Eliot and the servants for company. As wonderful as Eliot could be, Rose had grown accustomed to being able to spend time with Logan and speak on topics most would find wildly inappropriate for the precious Princess – things like history and languages and other cultures.

Reaver had been, initially, a guest for the Queen, but had very quickly switched his attention to the Queen's absolutely adorable and utterly _bored_ daughter. He'd first seen her moodily shooting wine bottles off of garden walls and then later rolling her eyes at her tutors when they scolded her disdain for the long and ridiculous hoop-skirts that had become popular among the upper class as of late.

With Logan gone for much of the time and the Queen mildly amused at Reaver's interest, Rose had developed an odd relationship with the man. She'd even teasingly named her puppy after him, laughingly explaining that the black and white colours reminded her of his favourite outfit. He'd been oddly delighted at the news but had asked that she keep the dog away when he visited, simply to avoid confusion. She'd consented with a wry quirk to her lips that made the once-pirate remember just who her mother was.

"The whole Castle has fallen to pieces with mother's death," she explained eventually. She was still fiddling with the rim of his hat and he continued to watch her, though his usual haughtiness was somewhat subdued in the privacy of the closed study. "Logan doesn't want to accept it and no one can believe how unaffected I am."

"Are you?" he queried neutrally. A single eyebrow rose in question when she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. Her eyes were more golden than brown, he noticed, and she had a faint furrow between her brows that belied her confusion. "Are you unaffected by your _illustrious_ mother's untimely demise?"

She scoffed at him. "It was hardly untimely. She's outlived most of Albion, as you well know." Her gaze softened and darkened and she brought her legs up to curl against the cushions. "I _am_ sad she has died, but I have lived with her death for years, regardless of whether or not she was breathing."

It would have caused anyone else to gasp in horror to hear such a thing. Reaver, on the other hand, simply dipped his head and shifted his seat so that one long leg crossed his opposite thigh and he could lean his side against the back of the couch, arm stretched across the length and propping his chin up as he faced her and stared at her thoughtfully. "Is that an '_unlike my brother_' I hear?"

Her eyes flashed a warning as she snapped her gaze away from his hat and up to his face. He arched a brow at her and she huffed a little. "Yes. It was most definitely in there," she agreed finally. "Logan's been running from mother for ages, whether or not he admits it. It is utterly ridiculous and I'm sick of it. I'm the Princess – second-born – and I was never meant to rule, yet here I am!" she gestured grandly at the room around them and scowled briefly at the door.

The windows rattled as though to emphasize her point, reminding her that it had been raining rather hard all afternoon. She turned to peer outside and was dismayed to realize she hadn't noticed the rain turning into a storm, nor the time for dinner having long passed. She looked at her companion and saw that he hadn't followed her gaze. Reaver stared at her, fully aware of the time and that it wouldn't be possible for him to return home in the weather that brewed outside. He watched her as the realization that he had come to the castle immediately even knowing that he would be forced to stay in the castle rather than in his own bed with his own servants simply because her mother was dead.

"I did not come because the Queen is dead, Your Highness," he murmured to her. She dropped her eyes from his and frowned. He reached out to tilt her chin up and continued to speak. "I came here because the Princess has apparently taken the Crown despite the King being completely able to manage his new position."

Rose was not one for admitting weaknesses. She refused to break down into some emotional wreck where Reaver could see (not that she was about to break down at all). She smiled faintly to show she acknowledged his statement and then sighed grandly. "Don't be silly. You came because you want to plan some ridiculously pompous affair for mother's funeral just to spite my brother."

Reaver laughed. "You are _entirely_ your mother's daughter, Princess," he teased. "Your brother will no doubt want some simple _family_ burial and he'll _completely_ neglect to invite _anyone_ that matters." He gestured flippantly with one hand waving his cane through the air. It whistled faintly with the force and Rose smiled in amusement. "Why, I'll bet he even forgets to throw the idiot commoners a parade or something to appease their inevitable inability to find proper court attire to attend the _actual_ funeral."

"A _parade_? Really Reaver, you may as well just arrange for a ball to be held out in the gardens so you can _actually_ dance on mother's grave rather than just figuratively."

The Head of Industry smirked and the Princess clapped a hand over her mouth in horrified delight. "You horrible, horrible man," she giggled, "you knew I'd say that, didn't you?"

"I knew no such thing, Your Highness," he denied pompously. The Princess and the former Pirate spent the rest of the evening planning a wickedly elaborate affair to force the King to emerge if only to put a stop to Reaver's suggestion of inviting every whore in the city to act as "living furniture**."  
**

**End.**


	5. Resplendence

**AN: Inspiration for the dress comes from this: http: (doubleslash) fanchaos . com (slash) fanplusfriend (slash) c5 (slash) Classic_Lolita_Sleeveless_Lacing_Up_Back_JSK_DR00114_01 . jpg **

**Just remove the spacing and add in the slashes to see it. If the link doesn't work or you just don't want to bother, send me a PM or an email and I'll send the link that way. Now, just put up with the descriptions of Rose's clothing for a bit longer. There's a reason behind that; I'm working to highlight the difference between what Rose prefers and what she puts up with for various reasons as driving forces behind agreeing to be part of a revolution when she's clearly enjoying (or at least content with) her childhood. **

**Reviews are appreciated. **

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**Resplendence **

The funeral had been a resplendent affair that started with a procession that circumnavigated its way from the castle, through Bowerstone, up to the outskirts of Millfields and back to the Castle. The Queen's body had been laid out in a brilliant coffin of gold and silver lined in red with a bright blue pillow beneath her head. They left it open so that the people could see their once and beloved Queen at rest in her death.

Logan rode in an open coach drawn by a single black horse bridled in all the reds, blues, and golds that made up the Royal colours. One of the footmen occasionally took over the driving on the less travelled sections of the road but for the most part, Logan drove. Rosalyn had been invited to accompany her brother but had opted to remain at the Castle to organize the tomb and (though she didn't actually say this other reason) to arrange the ball.

Reaver had only been too delighted to provide the catering (at least, the bar had been his donation) and was idly admiring the massive fountain of wineglasses erected as the centrepiece. Rose flitted about asking questions and allowing Jasper to divert her attention as he saw fit. The Princess had grown bored of mingling with the crowding nobles in the front of the castle and had wandered back to see the decorations and to plan her attire accordingly. The nobles would be in black and grey, she knew, in mourning for the Queen, but Princess Rosalyn would wear whatever colour she pleased as it was _her_ mother who was dead.

Reaver the puppy followed at her heels, sniffing curiously at the tables and wagging his tail at each new maid or butler that wandered about setting things up. Rosalyn informed Jasper that she was going to go inside and pick one of her dresses for the ball. He looked after his young Princess warily but was quickly busied with comforting a very distraught young scullery maid who had dropped a serving platter.

She shut the door against the faint chill from the encroaching evening and thanked the maid for stoking the fire for her. Rose then turned to her wardrobe and opened it, eyeing the contents critically. She had narrowed her choices down to two different outfits when someone knocked on her door.

Reaver the puppy stared at the door as it opened and growled softly at the man in the doorway. Reaver the man bowed slightly, removing his tall black hat to come through the door and putting it back on as he entered the main room. Rosalyn made a shooing motion to her dog and he whined a little but went outside. The guard outside hastily shut the doors at a pointed cough and tap of Reaver's pistol against his leg.

"May I help you, Reaver? The King is due back at any moment with Queen Sparrow's casket. It would hardly be dancing on her grave if she isn't put in the garden tomb." Rosalyn hadn't turned away from her choices, instead reaching out and pulling them out, laying them on the bed and continuing to stare at them ponderously.

"I am aware of the timing of the evening's events," Reaver drawled. His cane tapped in time with his steps until he was standing just behind her. She remained silent and one white glove fell on her shoulder, gold stitching catching faintly in the fading light.

Rose sighed. "Logan does not want me to travel farther than Bowerstone," she said. "While he has plans to try to sail to Aurora, I get to stay home and run things in his place, with Walter and Jasper, of course. I had hoped to study at Brightwall Academy and perhaps sail to some of those far-off cities my mother told stories about. Instead I am regulated to the place of a child and left under others' care."

Reaver removed his hand and was silent for a moment. Then he spoke, "I would choose the gold – it suits your colouring best, my dear."

Golden brown eyes narrowed upon the suggested set. "The gold? I was leaning toward the red myself."

"The red – while I'm sure it would no doubt be _stunning_ on you, Your Highness – is such a _common_ colour. The _guards_ wear it all the time. How utterly _usual_."

Her lips curled and she tilted her head to inspect the man. His coat was white as usual, but it wasn't fur-lined. Instead it was cut sharply to his waist and the criss-crossed brown belts with shiny gold buckles. His pants were white with gold pinstripes down the sides and golden stitches. His shirt was black but his doublet was an intricate pattern of white and cream stitching in the pattern of ivy. He had a soft buttery gold cape about his shoulders, edged in creamy fur, and clasped across his collarbone. His boots were black and gleamed with a gold buckle to match his belt.

"That I would match _you_ and no doubt annoy my brother is just a bonus, am I correct?" she drawled.

He smirked and didn't reply, though his eyes gleamed and he tapped his cane idly.

She shrugged and gathered the gown and went behind her screen to change. The first layer was a beautiful tea-with-milk colour that buttoned up to her throat with ruffled lapels and flared out from her waist with only a light petticoat. Next was a waist-coat as long as the dress. It was ruffle-lined gold silk with a faint ivy pattern. It cut up to her hips in two sharp points at the sides creating an upside-down triangle at the back. The front had a sharp space between the two sides where the trailing ends of the beautifully embroidered tie made a bow around her waist. A pale cream ribbon laced up the back and she fumbled with it in annoyance before emerging.

Reaver's eyes were on her at once and the Princess turned on heel and said primly, "Tie the ribbon for me, please?"

The towering man chuckled but did as bid, stepping back to allow her to pull on a pair of white lace stockings and slip her feet into kitten-heeled black shoes. She added a black ribbon at her throat and pinned it with a royal seal. A tiny white top-hat with a soft buttery-gold trim perched on her elaborate braided bun and a pair of white silk gloves completed the outfit.

"Sufficient?" she queried. Reaver was watching her intently and she scoffed at him. "I'm hardly woman enough for _stockings_ to be that interesting, love," she chided.

"_Au contraire_," he purred at her, leering for good measure and making her lips curl in amusement, "you are almost just _woman_ enough, Your Highness."

"Do _try_ to be less of a lecher; you'll give poor Jasper a heart-attack if he hears us."

"It would not be the first time I was caught in an unacceptable position," the impressive head of industry leaned back a fraction and tapped his cane idly. Rose wrinkled her nose and accepted the arm he offered her when she got close. "Though, I will admit, it might be the first time I would be caught in an unacceptable position with quite so many clothes _on_."

Her laugh was high and bright and he dipped his head at her with a smirk as they exited her room. Jasper had evidently extricated himself to find his charge for he stood waiting at the end of the walkway – lips thin and displeased but with an expression of otherwise perfect obedience.

"Princess Rosalyn, you look lovely as always," he bowed at the waist and the young woman smiled.

"You think so? Master Reaver offered to help pick something suitable for the funeral ball; I simply could not make up my mind." Rosalyn's eyes were golden in the fading light of the evening and she peered at her butler. "Incidentally, has my brother returned with mother's casket?"

Jasper's lips thinned more and Rosalyn's gaze darkened and lost warmth. Her stance shifted from pretty and demure to something _else _and Jasper abruptly dropped into another bow. "He is just arriving now, Your Highness," he reported quickly. "Shall I tell the staff to prepare to allow the guests entrance from the front courtyard?"

"Please do," she said. She held her shoulders back and tilted her head in a queenly manner and watched Jasper retreat down the way. Once he was out of earshot she spoke to her companion. "He is very efficient and very loyal, you know?"

"Efficiency and loyalty are good traits to have, Princess," he agreed. "But they _are _rather annoying in inherited help, if I understand your train of thought."

"You do not," she said simply. "However, I find it quaint that you try."

Reaver laughed and Rose smiled sidelong. The sudden laughter ignited by the young woman was almost matched by the amusement at the look on Logan's face when he spied his sister and her escort, Reaver, matched and waiting at the gate – all gold and light amidst the dreary mourners.

**End.**


	6. Dancing

**AN: Now, I actually bothered to spend time looking up dances for this (not that anyone cares, since I ended up with a stupid waltz anyway - probably _the_ most over-used dance in any bit of fiction _ever_) but in case anyone wanted to see the dance I was basing this off of just go to youtube and search "Luca & Loraine Baricchi 2009 Waltz". It should be the first link; if not, it's the one where she's in white and the floor is all lit up in red. The info informs me that it was in Japan. So yeah, go ahead and look if you want. Then, when you read my horrid description's second half, imagine it's Reaver just _looming_ over her.**

**As usual, reviews are appreciated. Many thanks to MusikSlave, sort of proud, galadriella, and AlleluiaElizabeth for their reviews. I would have responded personally but it appears the review response has been having issues whenever I try. So, thanks for the reviews and I'm absolutely delighted that you all like the evil princess. **

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**Dancing**

Rose was not one for dancing. In point of fact, she actively avoided lessons whenever Jasper conspired to arrange them. Dancing at a funeral, however, was an entirely different matter.

The Princess had been the picture of grace standing beside her brother as they watched the casket be sealed into the tomb with the late King's. In ceremonial purple dress uniform, Logan looked powerful and kingly though Rose had been able to see him hold back the harsh breath when the great doors of the monument had shut finally. She smoothed the edge of her waistcoat and subtly brushed her hand against his side. Her brother had straightened and calmly taken his seat when he was bid so that the memorial ball could begin.

The minute Logan was properly distracted speaking with some nobles seeking to offer their condolences Rosalyn had slipped away to the band and asked them for a light minuet for the guests. The easy familiarity of the dance drew the crowd out to the open space of the garden and they started to leave Logan to his seat and his silent brooding.

His brooding suited the Princess just fine for the moment. Eliot came from a side entrance and stood at her side, eyes following the various nobles while he sought her hand. She reached out and clutched his fingers briefly before crossing her hands primly before her. "I am glad you have returned, Eliot," she said.

"I'm sorry I was gone for so long," he responded. Rose's eyes were dark as she took in his black uniform in her periphery. "That is a lovely dress, by the way."

"Thank you," she dipped her head and turned slightly to face him. "My mother would hardly wish to see me in black, I think, when I am so obviously suited to gold."

"The Queen, Avo rest her soul, would have ordered red be the official colour of mourning," Eliot quipped with a grim sort of twitch to his lips. "She always said that black was such a misunderstood shade."

"Red the colour of blood," she added absently. She was gazing at the dancers and her eyes reflected the lamplight in the darkening evening. "Logan is still sitting there, isn't he?" She needn't have asked; Logan would hardly wish to dance after watching his mother entombed. Eliot nodded shortly.

"Stop plotting," Eliot muttered after a moment. Rosalyn arched a single eyebrow at him and he flushed. "You look evil when you're plotting."

She sniffed haughtily, "Hardly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must find my escort."

"Escort?" Eliot scanned the crowds and then narrowed his eyes at her. "Don't even…you know that'll annoy him to no end!"

"Precisely." She curtsied and slipped away, striding through the crowds as if on a mission.

"Ah, Princess Rosalyn, how _lovely_ you look this evening. Positively _enchanté_, if I may say so?"

"You may – as many times as you please," she slid her gaze briefly to the women fawning over the man and they scurried away quickly. Reaver paid them no mind and bowed over her proffered hand. Golden brown eyes returned to his face and she smiled innocently. "May we dance?"

"I believe it is I who should be asking _you_, Your Highness," Reaver purred even as he propped his cane in the crook of his arm and slipped one hand to her back, briefly coiling his fingers about the ribbon there while his other hand captured hers and he led them into a slow waltz.

The Princess was _much_ smaller than the Head of Industry but they made a striking pair as the band started an ethereal sort of music punctuated by sweet plucked notes and uplifting sweeps of melody. Amidst the dark mourning colours, the two were beacons of gold and light in the fading evening as Reaver carefully led his young partner in wide steps across the stone. She seemed to float, head twisting about gracefully with each turn and her skirt shifting and flaring, and her eyes were bright and amused. Reaver watched her, adjusting his long strides to a more manageable length, and still managing to keep his cane where he'd tucked it. His coat flared a little on their turns and his pistol shone the same gold as the Princess' silks.

Rose knew her brother was watching. She smiled and tilted her head fractionally to peer at Reaver. The man smirked and his stance shifted between one step and the next. Where he'd previously been a proud frame for her slighter form, he now bent slightly forward. He loomed over the Princess' head and she tucked her chin just enough that it was as if he held her captive against him rather than letting her float in time with the music.

The crowd that had gathered and shifted to watch murmured anxiously and Rose knew she had won. Logan waited for the music to trail away – waited for his sister to step back and curtsy with perfectly innocent decorum – before he was at her side.

"Sister," he greeted. "You are beautiful."

"Thank you, brother," she smiled at him prettily and let him slip his arm around her waist and subtly pull her away from Reaver. The man smirked and she leaned her head against her brother's shoulder, peering at him through her eyelashes. "Thank you for the dance, Master Reaver," she murmured politely.

"It was my _pleasure_, Your Highness," the man simpered. His wicked smirk crinkled the tiny heart tattoo. "However, I see that His Majesty has claimed you now so I shall bid you _adieu._"

Rosalyn watched him go and then smiled at her brother. "I had hoped you would dance with me, brother," her voice was sweet and she saw him frown after his Head of Industry. Still, he turned his attention back to her and nodded.

"Of course, little sister," he signalled for the music to begin again and she took her place in his arms. Logan's gaze was not so distant anymore and he kissed her forehead affectionately. "You are handling mother's passing well? I am sorry I have not spent as much time with you as I should."

"Oh brother, don't be silly," she saw Eliot frowning at the sidelines and ignored him. "I understand that you are King now. You have responsibilities to Albion."

"Yes, but I shall always love you, Rose," he promised.

Rose could see Reaver's white coat vanishing into the castle with a woman on each arm. Eliot was speaking quietly with Jasper and Sir Walter watched the Royal siblings with care. Her mother's body was beneath her feet and people were dancing and laughing lightly. Her brother appeared to be focussed on his Albion and she had enjoyed a pleasant waltz already. She beamed at Logan and her eyes flashed golden brown. "And I love you, Logan."

**End.**


	7. Shadows

**AN: I'm uncertain as to why some people thought this was over. Just because the Queen's been buried doesn't mean that the story is over; I've said that it isn't in order (though it is right _now_) and when it is finished I shall _tell_ you. Alright? Alright. Now, reviews are appreciated. This update comes with a longer wait than usual because I was at Anime North over the last weekend. I was one of the many, many Tifa Lockhearts though I traveled with a Panty and a girl in an Alice in Wonderland dress so perhaps some of you may have seen me. **

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**Shadows**

Princess Rosalyn was dressed in a soft green linen gown, embroidered with sea-foam and crisp white with pearls lining the neckline and bodice. The skirt was airy and billowed in the breeze. The dainty white heels with shiny silver buckles clicked on the stone when she walked and completed her outfit for the day. She tilted her head and stared at her brother.

"That is final, Rose. You shall not visit Bowerstone again, understand?" He hardly looked up from the papers he had scattered across his desk in the war-room. Her eyes narrowed faintly and she hummed vaguely. He looked up at her this time, eyes dark and displeased, and gestured with his fountain pen. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Oh of course, brother," Rosalyn smiled brightly, trailing her eyes over the scar forming on his lip and the shadows under his eyes. "I hardly liked the bustle of town as it was."

Logan frowned at her and she continued to smile, idly peering around his office, until he sighed and murmured that she could leave.

"Are you dining with me?" she asked, pausing at the door, head canted to one side.

"Perhaps, if I finish this work," her brother said shortly, looking at her pointedly. She laughed and ducked out as if she were embarrassed. Outside the room, Eliot waited with her dog and they both looked up when she emerged and shut the door behind her.

Rose knelt and reached for the furry beast. Reaver nosed under her chin and pressed against her knees. She ruffled his ears and tugged at his scruff and he squirmed and fell on his side to beg for a belly-rub. She rolled her eyes and stood – smiling when her boy whined and nosed at her hand.

"Logan is working now," she informed her companion. "I'm not to leave the castle grounds anymore."

Eliot looked at her sceptically. She shrugged inelegantly and he sighed. "If that's what the King thinks is best," he said agreeably. She knew he wondered why she was accepting this restriction. Princess Rosalyn started down the hallway, ignoring the salutes from the guards, and listening to Eliot's startled pause and muttered curse.

"What's in store for today then, Rose?"

She skipped a little and grinned sideways at him. He'd only started to call her by name in the past few years: when Walter had started to train with him a little and insisted that everyone in _his_ training ring was equal. Rose didn't like swords but she knew the appropriate forms and was required to practice them on a fairly regular basis which meant she was often in the ring, learning how to stand, how to show respect and how to very subtly insult. Walter thought fencing ridiculous, of course, but he helped her tutor teach her the stances.

"I was going to meet with Samuel today. He wanted to talk to me about the Academy." Rose liked Samuel; he had been handpicked by her mother to run the school and had taken to visiting once a week to speak with the Princess about anything and everything.

"Why do you want to meet with him?"

"He recently came into possession of a book I've been searching for. I've been waiting months for this visit." Rose tilted her head at an out-of-place maid as she passed and the woman curtsied.

"Mister Samuel is waiting for you in the library, Your Highness," she demurred.

"Thank you, Anne," the princess replied absently – already amending her course. The maid smiled haltingly at the Princess' knowledge of her name but waited for the girl to leave the immediate area before scurrying away with a pale face.

The library was tucked away under the grand staircase, almost directly below the throne room. It was lined with books and had four statues – one in each corner – and four tables set up in neat rows. There was a short hallway that led to a door out to the back gardens on one side of the room and the doors were currently flung open to let in a fresh breeze and a bit of late-afternoon sunlight.

Samuel looked up from arranging a selection of books when she entered and offered a shallow bow to the princess. She bee-lined for the books and inspected them with curious eyes and lightly flitting hands.

Her brow furrowed faintly and she looked up. Samuel inclined his head toward a book set off to the side and she gently picked it up, turning it over in her hands and fingering the embossed leather cover thoughtfully.

"This is the book?" she asked.

"It is not the exact book I'm afraid, Your Highness," Samuel looked a slight bit upset that she had picked up on it so quickly. "The exact book is likely packed away in the Old Castle and we will never see it. This is written by your mother, however, and she mentions the contents of the original directly several times."

"Are you still trying to get Reaver's diary?" Eliot asked, eyeing the books askance and frowning faintly.

"Don't be silly, Eliot," she waved a negligent hand at her companion. "Reaver is _hardly_ that entertaining. I'm trying to find my mother's journal; specifically, I want the section that recounts her time in Bloodstone."

"Whatever for?"

Rose smiled and skimmed the first few pages of the book curiously. "Oh, this _is_ rather good, isn't it? Thank you, Samuel." She continued to thumb through the pages idly.

He watched the Princess with a careful expression and hesitantly spoke again. "About the diary, Your Highness…"

Rosalyn blinked innocently at Eliot's triumphant shout. She frowned at his pointed finger, however. "Rude," she scolded even as he rolled his eyes and stared at her with a smug smirk.

Samuel was smiling tentatively at the interaction and trembled only faintly when the Princess turned golden-hued brown eyes at him expectantly. "The Hero Queen was the last to own a copy, Your Highness, and I never received the diary after her death. If it is not in the castle, I am afraid I cannot find a copy of it."

Rose looked disappointed but smiled a little at the Academy's caretaker. "That's perfectly alright, Samuel. I suppose I shall resign myself to never reading it."

"As you say, Your Highness," he murmured with a bow. The Princess swept out of the room with Eliot hastily saying his goodbyes to the other male behind her before he came jogging back to her side.

"I knew you were still looking for that diary," he informed her.

She huffed. "If there is one thing I dislike about my brother, it is his refusal to open the old study. Mother kept all _sorts_ of interesting things in there. My aunt may have been killed in the dratted room, but that is no reason to lock it up _now_ when even _she_ did not!"

Eliot blinked at her. "You sounded oddly like Master Reaver just then," he said.

She laughed suddenly – all musical and gentle – and looked at him through her lashes with a slow smile curving her Cupid's bow lips. "Did I? I shall have to remember to tell him that at supper."

"He's coming here for _supper? _Isn't supper for family?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Supper is simply less formal than dinner; it has absolutely no restrictions on guests." They had reached the entrance hall and Rose brightened immediately at the sight. "Speaking of guests!" she exclaimed just loudly enough to be heard, holding out both hands and striding forward.

Reaver turned from leering at a passing butler and smirked wickedly at the Princess. "Ah! Your Highness, a _pleasure_ as always!" He took both her hands in his and bowed over them – nearly brushing his hat against the top of her head. Eliot hung back, just out of sight, letting his friend greet the Head of Industry without interference. Rose grinned at the tall man and let him tuck her arm against his side as she made a graceful gesture with her head to continue into the castle.

"I was looking for your Diary again," she informed him, after they had taken their seats in the informal dining room and had been served beverages and appetizers. "It would be ever so much _easier_ if you would just convince my dearest brother to open the old study."

"I thought the Princess liked a challenge, _hm?_" Reaver was delighting over the wine selection for the meal and only glanced up to grin silkily at the sweet curve to Rose's smile.

"Dratted man," she said fondly. "Why my mother never killed you, I'll never know."

"Sparrow always did enjoy our little _repartees_," he replied jubilantly.

"_Queen_ Sparrow, Reaver," Logan growled from the doorway. The man rose to bow, as did Eliot, while Rosalyn tipped her head demurely at her elder sibling. "What are you two talking about, as it was?"

"Nothing so serious, brother," Rose waved her hand and flashed a brilliant smile, complete with shining eyes and a sort of happy jump in her seat. Logan eyed her with fond exasperation but took his place at the head of the table – calling quickly for more wine and the main course. Rosalyn hummed idly at the roast duck brought forth and wrinkled her nose a little. "Duck is so…gamey."

"Rose."

She sighed theatrically. "_Yes_ Logan, I'll eat it. Though I _really_ would like some lamb."

"Why do you enjoy lamb so much?" Eliot asked quickly. Rosalyn's lips pulled back from her teeth in a grin that was just this side of vicious. Logan glanced up, startled at her expression, and she tempered it with a soft look from behind long lashes.

"Sheep are too tough when they're fully grown, I find. While still young, they are…succulent."

Reaver laughed and she tilted her head at him graciously despite Logan's exasperated look. "Your Highness has fine tastes," he murmured over the lip of his goblet. "I know _Queen_ Sparrow had quite a few exotic cookbooks in her possession – from Samarkand, I believe. Perhaps Your Majesty might have them retrieved from the Queen's Study?"

"I am not opening the study just so you may fight with Reaver over his diary," Logan said curtly, not deigning to look at either of them.

Rose frowned. "You are absolutely no fun at all, Logan," she informed him. "Besides which, I would not _fight_ with Reaver over his blasted diary."

"Of course not, you'd just burn and salt his dead body so you could enjoy reading all his secrets in peace," Eliot muttered darkly.

Reaver chuckled and Rosalyn sniffed haughtily. "I suppose we shall never know _what_ I would do with the real diary, will we? So stop suggesting I'm a sort of murderer – in front of the man in question, too," she scolded.

Logan diverted the topic to matters pertaining to some new security measures he planned to implement and the rest of the supper was nothing but easy conversation or statistics until Eliot asked to be excused and Rosalyn bid her brother goodnight. She brushed her hand along Reaver's shoulders as she left the room, eyes golden and gleaming, and he tipped his head at her, smirking a challenge while Logan was otherwise occupied.

"I _did_ try," he murmured in passing, as she stood in the shadows of the hall and he prepared to exit to his carriage late in the evening after Logan had retreated to his chambers for the night.

"I _do_ enjoy a challenge," she replied. He barked a laugh and left under her smirking golden eyes.

**End.**


	8. Limits

**AN: I wish I could post the thing I was going to write. I just finished a playthrough of the game again, you see, and I was trying to figure out how to work evil into the Princess crying over Walter's dead body but then I had the most _wonderful_ idea and now I can't post it _forever_because I've written nowhere near the drabbles I need to flesh out the eerie factor of the bit I'm currently working on.**

**Oh well, I'm sure you'll all live. I know I will (though I'm not _pleased_ about it, _per se_). As always, reviews are appreciated.**

**Oh yes, and to the reviewer PeacefullyCrazy: I'm not certain what led you to believe that this was over by any means but I can assure you it is not - over, I mean. As evidenced by this chapter right here.**

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**Limits**

Princess Rosalyn tilted her head so that her long braid flipped over her shoulder. King Logan looked down at his paperwork in dismissal and ignored his sister standing before his desk. She smiled vaguely and left the study.

"Rosalyn…?" Eliot scrambled to his feet from where he had slumped out in the hallway and chased after his best friend. Rosalyn didn't even turn her head to acknowledge his presence. She stared straight ahead, vague smile still in place, and walked to the nearest exit into the gardens.

It didn't take long for her to reach one of the gazebos out back where a few nobles were sitting to get out of the sun.

"Good afternoon," she greeted them in a honeyed tone. They jumped into rapid prostrations before her and the Princess' smile stretched prettily. "Leave. _Now."_

They were gone before the shiver had even made it halfway up Eliot's spine at the sharp edge to her smile. It was a baring of teeth disguised as a smile, he could see, now that she was facing him.

"Rosalyn, what's wrong?" he fluttered his hands anxiously near her and she stared at him with the same smile she'd used on the nobles. Her eyes were golden and he was trembling faintly in fear even in his concern. "Rose!"

"I am not to bother our Head of Industry with my inane chatter and company any longer," Rosalyn said easily. She sounded almost delighted and it was utterly terrifying. She selected a bench and sat down, arranging her long white skirts around her. They had little blue ruffles decorating them that matched the ruffles at the cuffs of her blouse and gloves. Her bodice was decorated with intricate red and gold embroidery and she had a simple white ribbon tied around her neck holding a ruby at the hollow of her throat.

Eliot blinked at her. She made a clucking noise in her throat and he felt the soft brush of fur as her great black and white dog emerged from somewhere behind him and went to her side. The dog, Reaver, leapt onto the bench and put his head into her lap where she indulged him with scratching behind his ears. The shaggy tail swished back and forth gently and warm brown eyes peered up adoringly at the Princess.

"Master Reaver?" he asked for clarification. Rosalyn nodded simply and still smiled at him. "Master Reaver whom you named your dog after? The same Reaver whose diary you were forced to stop searching for when Brightwall was closed and Samuel retreated to take care of it all by himself? Reaver the man who you find every excuse to visit with even though you _know _Logan hates him?_That _Reaver?"

"You forgot to mention his tireless devotion to seducing my maids away never to be seen again," her lips curled and Eliot swallowed at the satisfied glint in her eye as she idly pet her dog and stared up at him. "However, yes, that is the Reaver to whom I was referring."

"Is your brother insane?"

"Watch your tone," she snapped. Eliot jumped and she narrowed her eyes at him. Reaver growled and his eyes looked red when the sunlight hit them though Eliot _knew_ that was just his imagination since only Wolf had ever had red eyes – red eyes to match his mistress the former Hero-Queen.

Rosalyn's mother.

"Why would the King care what Master Reaver does in his spare time?"

"The man has the largest influence over the financial future of Albion. My brother understands that Reaver simply cannot waste time peddling his time away with the silly Princess nor catering to her whims." Reaver wasn't growling at him anymore, but his teeth were sharp when he curled his lip briefly before nuzzling under Rosalyn's chin with a low rumble.

"Are you just going to accept that?"

Rose's eyes were sharp and her lips pulled back in a secretive curl. "I am sure my brother is correct; Master Reaver should not dally with me when there is a Kingdom to be run. I will simply need to find someone else to spend my time with."

Eliot was Rose's closest friend. He was fairly certain that he was her _only _friend – aside from the dog. On the very short list of people Rosalyn found tolerable, Eliot was absolutely ___positive _that Reaver ranked first. Her brother, Eliot himself, Walter, Jasper, her dog, even her _____mother _all came after Reaver in her preferences. He watched her as she stood and wandered over to inspect one of the flower bushes nearby.

She looked as perfectly calm and accepting as the obedient and devoted Princess should when faced with a new directive from her brother and King.

"What are you plotting?"

The sidelong look she sent him was narrow and sly. Her eyes were golden in the sunlight and she fluffed her skirts absently in a gesture he knew she only did to annoy her governesses. "I would never plot against my dearest Logan," she informed him. "Now, don't we have to have our lesson with Walter? He was going to help with my shooting today."

"You've never missed a shot in your entire life," Eliot scoffed. "Master Reaver is the only one who can beat you and _he _isn't allowed to visit with you anymore."

"I am aware," Rosalyn smiled. "I don't need Reaver anymore. I'll just have to apologize for bothering him before he leaves from his meeting with the King."

* * *

"Princess?" Reaver's head was tilted curiously when he spotted her lingering in the entrance hall. She smiled beatifically at him and held out her hands. He took them and bowed, nearly brushing her hair with his hat, just as he always did to greet her. She let him tuck her arm against his side and fell into step with him on the way to his carriage. "To _what _do I owe this honour?"

"Dratted man," she said fondly. "You know very well _what."_

"I _had _heard something about the Princess becoming a recluse on her King's orders, I suppose," he mused, eyeing her sidelong. Her eyes were dark and brown and she was looking out over the courtyard at his carriage as though wishing very much to have it burst into flames. "I simply did not believe that she would accept such a limitation on her personal freedoms."

"Reaver, darling, you are entirely too gullible." She smiled at his affronted frown. "Of course I will obey my dearest brother. Besides, it cannot be pleasant to spend so much time with one such as me."

"_Au contraire, _Your Highness, I find spending any amount of time with you to be _utterly_ refreshing a change from the monotony of the flock your brother calls___nobles."_

She paused and he stopped with her. Her eyes were unfocussed but staring someplace in the middle of his chest and he tilted his head to inspect her expression. There was a calm façade over her true face but he had been alive for so very long that he could see the truth there. She was mildly amused at his proclamation but beyond that she was annoyed with the new edict. Very annoyed, if he was honest. He hummed in his throat and reached out to cup her chin in his hand.

She peered at him from behind shuttered lashes and allowed his motion. Her eyes were still dark, he could see, but that golden flash of colour was smoldering behind her eyes. He sighed theatrically when her lips started to curl into that silken smirk. "If you insist, Your Highness, I shall _refrain_ from visiting with you."

"The King insists," she corrected him and he raised a single eyebrow so that she laughed and pushed his hand away from her face. "I expect things will be interesting again soon, Reaver, so keep an eye out, yes?"

"Naturally," he made a flippant move with one hand and let his cane fall into the crook of one elbow as he settled into his carriage. She demurely crossed her arms behind her back and smiled prettily up at him. She looked, he decided, very much like her mother did when she had agreed to go on his request to return the seal in Wraithmarsh. Sparrow had been amused then, just as her daughter was now, but whereas the mother had returned in a bout of exuberance sharpened only by anger at the cost of his little quest, this daughter looked amused with a flash of wicked, wicked _knowing._

"Tatty-bye, Rosalyn," he said in a voice many would call fond.

"_Adieu, _Reaver," her smile was a slow curl and her voice a faint purr when she hit his name. His driver urged the carriage forward and the last he would see of the Princess for quite some time was her flashing eyes, the sly curve of her lips, and the ridiculous frills of her skirts.

**End**


	9. Teach Me

**AN: And here is the first deviation from the timeline I'd had going. But I wanted to set up something for later so this was necessary. That and I thought a little more of Queen Sparrow in her declining years wouldn't go amiss.**

**Again, I'd like to mention PeacefullyCrazy in my author's note; this time for amusing me with their review. "Flippy flabby puppies in the wind" indeed. Also a thank you to the anonymous kaylee for their reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying the odd relations between my Princess and Reaver. They're very fun to write.**

**I'm basing a lot of Reaver's speech patterns after a character from a book series, actually. It's by Gail Carriger and begins with the book entitled "Soulless." The character I'm referring to is named Lord Akeldama. He's quite possibly my favourite character in the entire series, despite not being a main character. The novel is very steampunk and reminds me quite a bit of Fable 3's industrial-age sort of setting. It's a very good series and I highly recommend the books for anyone who enjoyed Fable 3 and likes to read. **

**As usual, reviews are appreciated and encouraged.  
**

* * *

**Teach Me**

"Walter?" Logan looked up when his sister spoke. Her high bright voice was curious and her eyes were fixed on a portrait of their mother hanging beyond the desk where they were studying. The old soldier grunted and Logan could see Rose's eyes narrow faintly. "Walter, what makes someone a Hero?"

"Lots of things," Walter said absently. "Courage, bravery, moral fibre…"

"I said _Hero_ not heroic," Rose deadpanned. Walter stiffened and Logan found he could not sit by while his sister casually discussed topics that so reminded him of their mother up in her room – wasting away slowly from her first (and likely only) illness in her life.

The young Prince had already moved to the other side of the room – out of immediate earshot – and Rosalyn watched him go with a shrewd sort of expression.

"Why do you want to know?" Walter hedged carefully.

The Princess's eyes were laughing at him but her lips were thin and displeased. "If you know, Walter, please tell me."

"Perhaps this is a question best answered by your mother," he suggested. Rose blinked and cast a quick look at her brother and then back to the soldier. The flat look told him precisely what she thought of that idea. "Maybe the Seer again?"

"I can hardly go to Bower Lake on my own," she drawled, propping her head up and looking all the world like she was ready to sit and wait however long for her question to be answered. "Walter." His name was a faint warning that made Logan think of Queen Sparrow.

"Rosalyn, love, stop bothering Walter," the Queen slowly entered the room. She was leaning on a polished black cane and Wolf prowled into the room before her – inspecting the occupants and chuffing his approval before allowing her to properly enter. Reaver followed behind the blonde-haired Hero and he tipped his hat at the two children. "What did you want, as it was?"

Logan could see his sister come alive at the sight of the head of Reaver Industries. Her eyes were gleaming golden and she smiled at him. It wasn't the smile she usually used. It wasn't a baring of teeth or a smirk or a sly curl or an innocent grin. This was a smile of pleasure and Logan's sister only very rarely had cause to be pleased with anything.

"What makes a Hero?" she repeated for their mother. Sparrow scratched at the base of one horn and laughed a little.

"Heroes are all from the same bloodline," Sparrow explained. "I can't rightly say how I managed to come across our Heroic lineage, but it is most definitely there. There's no knowing if a child has Heroic blood anymore though. Theresa might know but she certainly won't share that particular secret with anyone else; I figure she's worried that people will try to abuse the Heroes again."

"Ah yes, the fall of the guild," Reaver hummed and Sparrow rolled her eyes at him. He sneered at her but she just laughed until he smirked and rolled his own eyes. "Unfortunately, even if the Old Hag _were_ inclined toward sharing, the gypsies have _long_ since, ah – _departed_ Bower Lake."

"Oh?" Ruby eyes narrowed and the Queen's Will lines flickered briefly. "Departed, eh?"

"There may have been some _encouragement_," Reaver gestured with one hand, "but they left all-together whole for the most part."

"I'm holding you to that, Pirate."

"You can _hold_ me however you want, pretty Sparrow," Reaver purred. He leered at the Queen and she let him press a kiss to her hand when he snatched it up and bowed lowly. Her eyes were scarlet and bright but her expression was mild amusement tempered by exhaustion. His eyes were dark and his grip careful as he straightened and gestured to one of the nearby chairs. The Queen sank into the plush seat and grinned at her daughter when the little girl just stared curiously between her mother and her mother's friend.

"Does that answer your question, Rose?" Sparrow peered at her daughter as the little girl hummed thoughtfully.

"What can you do, mama, which a normal person can't?" Rosalyn came to curl up on the corner of a couch, near her mother's chair, and pillowed her head on her folded arms to listen. Reaver eyed her sideways from the other side of the couch and only fractionally curled his lip in distaste.

"Hm," Sparrow looked upwards as though the answer were hovering in the air. "Well, I can use magic, for one. But not _all_ Heroes use Will power. There are Heroes of Skill and Strength as well. And of course, there's Heroes like me who can use all three talents."

"Heroes of Strength like Sister Hannah?"

"Precisely." The Queen's smile was wan; Hannah had died only a few years before. "And Garth was a Hero of Will, if you remember?"

"I remember," Logan piped up quietly. He had slipped over and was carefully peering at his mother. The blonde woman smiled and waved a hand at Walter. The soldier bowed and left the room at the unspoken command. "He had lines like yours."

"Lorded those over us as well, didn't he?" Reaver muttered. Logan could see his sister's shoulders shift forward and the line of her back arch like a cat in satisfaction before she settled in once more.

"Don't be such a baby, Pirate," Sparrow grinned and her own Will lines flickered. "You're the one who could scarcely find a breath to _stop_ bragging."

"My _talent_ was and _remains_ far more impressive than your silly little light show," the tall man declared imperiously.

"You're just sore that I can shoot just as well," the Queen looked smug and Reaver looked murderous. Logan wished fervently that Rose would get out of the way; he didn't trust Reaver to hold his temper and _not_ harm the Princess.

"Mister Reaver," Rose ignored her brother's silent plea (though she must have seen the anxiety scrawled across the lines of his young face) and turned her head to tilt it at the other male with a glittering eyes, "tell me what it's like when you shoot."

The Head of Industry leered at the little girl and she raised a single eyebrow impatiently. The man chortled and – in a move that made even Sparrow look mildly surprised – deigned to answer the little Princess. "I see the target and I simply _know_ precisely how, when, and where to fire. I always have."

"You never miss then?"

"Never." He looked disgusted at even the mere suggestion.

"Say you did miss," she said, staring intently, "what would it feel like? If you can imagine it at all."

"If I were so _uncouth_ as to _miss_ a shot, I believe that I would know the minute detail as to _why_ I missed. Which I _wouldn't_," he stressed the last almost harshly.

"Of course not," Rosalyn agreed easily – ignoring his tone completely. "Mama," she turned back to the Queen, "may I get a gun?"

"Mother!" Logan's voice went embarrassingly high and his mother laughed.

"I know, Logan," she said. "I won't be getting your little sister a gun – have no fear."

Holding his mother's crimson gaze to be sure of her sincerity, Logan missed the thoughtful look that flickered across Reaver's eyes. Rosalyn was peering at the other man knowingly, curled like a cat, and she leaned toward him. Reaver crossed his legs and the grip of his gun was bright and gold like Rose's eyes. "Could you at least _teach_ me to use one, even if I mayn't have one?" she queried, eyes locked on the older man even though her question was directed at her mother.

Logan looked back at his sister only to see her facing her mother and sitting primly on the sofa.

"I don't see why not," Sparrow said cheerfully as she got to her feet with the help of her cane. "Hey Pirate, want to visit my new ship? I think you'll like this one."

"I highly doubt that," he drawled, rising and looking down his nose at the Queen tauntingly. She elbowed him gently and he grunted but followed her out the door. "But I will _indulge_ the ailing Hero Queen if that is her desire."

"_Indulge _away, Pirate," she leered at him and he barked a laugh before they were gone.

**End**


	10. Breaking Point

**AN: You have no idea how difficult it was for me to not jump into game-story rather than this pre-game stuff. You really don't. But I did it and I'm rather pleased I decided to go with this bit instead; it helps to set up for a rather important piece I plan on writing much later. Hooray!**

**As always, reviews are appreciated. **

* * *

**Breaking Point**

"I have no interest in learning to use the sword beyond fencing, Walter," Rose said with a faint frown furrowing a line between her brows. "I do not know what has possessed you to teach me recently but I want nothing to do with it."

"Princess, please," Walter's eyes were wide and pleading – an expression that had always worked on her mother – but the Princess just blinked at him and folded her arms crossly. "Just one more session – tomorrow – at your convenience?"

Golden-brown eyes flickered shrewdly and Rosalyn waved a hand negligently. "Alright. Just once more. However," here she fixed him with a look that had Walter – a seasoned war veteran – frozen in place, "if I manage to best you in this session, you will absolutely _cease_ asking for 'one more session' understood?"

"Of course, Princess!"

"Walter." Her eyes were narrow and more gold then brown. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in an expression that reminded the man of the long-deceased Wolf and her voice was a shade _off_ of her usual tone. "Walter, I appreciate the effort you put forth to teaching me even a fraction of my mother's skills but I feel I must remind you that I am _not_ my mother. I did not ask to be taught."

"You don't always get to choose what happens to yourself, Your Highness," he said in that strange foreboding voice he'd adapted recently.

Rosalyn's smile was a sharp line across her face. "I am intimately aware of that, Walter. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must check in with my brother." She swept out of the room with nary a glance backwards at the forlorn yet hopeful expression on the old soldier's face.

Predictably, her brother was in the throne room, judging some of the cases brought before him by varying factions. The pages bowed and murmured "Your Highness" as she entered and slipped over to stand behind his seat. He glanced at her briefly over the top of a missive and nodded at her. She smiled and gracefully sunk into the seat hurriedly carried out for her.

Reaver (the man, not her dog) twirled his cane in a lavish motion that made her lips curl. Logan frowned in confusion at the seemingly random outburst of motion and quickly turned his attention back to the plaintiff.

"Your request for a standard termination package for state-employed dock workers has been denied. Reaver will remain the authority on the matter."

The former pirate preened in delight and smirked at the other man. Rose inspected the worn old suit he was wearing with an expression of mild distaste and smoothed the short navy sheathe-like skirt she wore over black leggings from her lesson with Walter. She'd forgone a corset (much to the horror of the nobles who made it their business to keep up with the fashions their Princess set on a daily basis) and instead wore a slightly billowy white blouse with a thick red sash tied securely around her chest, crossed over her back, and tied in a trailing knot just under her bust. Her hair was tied high on the crown of her head in a long tail of wavy chocolate locks. Her boots were tall knee-length affairs laced tightly and buttoned up the sides and she crossed her legs and propped her hand up to inspect her nails absently even as she smirked at Reaver from behind long lashes.

She was honestly surprised Logan hadn't dismissed the court the minute she entered the same room as Reaver. His edict from a few years prior had remained in firm affect and she only ever caught glimpses of her former companion as he came and went. She pursed her lips when Logan proceeded to do just that even as the thought crossed her mind.

Reaver bowed his usual extravagant flourish and swept out of the room with a sneer at the man representing the dock workers. Logan had already turned to fix her with a stern look and Rose's smile was pure innocence.

"Walter and I have finished for the day," she explained cheerfully. "I wondered if you had anything planned for me?"

"What were you doing with Walter?" Logan looked almost bewildered with only a few guards left in the room to observe. It was a side of the King that no one but Rose ever got to see.

She raised a brow and waved a negligent hand. "Just some sword work. Nothing difficult or strenuous."

"Fencing – that's alright then." He offered her his hand and she took it, leaning against him and bumping her hip against his lightly. Logan's lip pulled back in a faint weary smile as he tucked his little sister against his side. "Come with me to the gardens."

"As you please," she said agreeably, tilting her head and smiling. "May Reaver come as well?"

"Excuse me?"

His look was sharp and she laughed. "My _dog_."

He smiled thinly at her and she knew he was displeased. Rosalyn whistled sharply and the black and white beast of a canine came streaking to her side, giving Logan a cursory look before watching his mistress for a command. She made a motion for him to follow and the dog did so obediently as Logan began to lead his little sister out to the gardens.

"Has the staff been tending to your needs?" he asked eventually once they'd found a quiet corner of the garden and he'd settled onto a bench.

"Perfectly, why?"

Logan had a troubled expression and Rose sat beside him – leaning against his arm until the King wrapped it around her shoulders gently. "It's nothing. Please, don't worry about it."

"I never worry, Logan," she said with a faint grin. She plucked at the gold tassels of his uniform absently. "Eliot returns from Bowerstone tomorrow. He promised to bring word of how the city has been flourishing lately." Logan tensed beside her and made a noncommittal noise. Rosalyn held out her hands for her dog to put his head in and scratched him behind the ears. The dog rumbled a low growl of pleasure and closed his eyes.

The Princess of Albion knew her brother didn't want her to hear _anything_ about Albion. But the King knew that Eliot was his sister's companion and he could hardly interfere without Rose knowing and being disappointed in her elder sibling. He glanced sideways at the soft look Rose was gracing her pet with and felt something inside him clench anxiously. Her eyes were golden when she looked at him briefly and he offered her a wan smile that made her furrow her brow a little before returning her attention to the whining Reaver before her.

No. His sister would understand he had his reasons for doing what he did. She would listen to him before she made any judgements, he was sure. After all, Rosalyn _hated_ not knowing the full story. He would spend the next few hours listening to his sister's idle chatter and acquiesce to her desire for some renovations around the gardens and some of the tension in his shoulders would fall away. Some, but not all.

After all, Rosalyn hadn't yet heard Eliot's account of his yearly trip home to his parents' house.

**End**


	11. Shatter

**AN: This was a fun part. What's making me giddy is knowing I have the next chapter done and not posting it deliberately. I'm evil, I know. But it is worth the wait - besides which, it makes it easier to keep a roughly once-a-week update schedule if I keep extra chapters prepared when I hit those spurts of inspiration between chapters. If that made any sense. I might post this by the end of the week though, depending on how much I feel like cheering myself up. **

**I just bought myself my first car, you see. Not that I haven't had a car before, but this one is the first car that's ACTUALLY mine. The only problem is that it's a manual transmission and I've only had automatic. I'm having some trouble learning how to get that first shift into first to work without A) stalling the car or B) jerking around like it's possessed. So yes, having a little bit of stress with that. **

**Not that any of this affects anyone else. But it may mean I'll need a little pick-me-up and post something earlier. So we'll see. **

* * *

**Shatter**

She was _bored_. Walter was an excellent swordsman, she'd give the old soldier that, but he was so _slow_. She dodged another blow with a neat little sidestep that she'd learned in her dance lessons of all things and then quickly bent her knees. Her body swung in an arc and the sword in her hand was an extension of her arm. Walter hastily brought his own weapon up to parry the blow but she narrowed her eyes and _slightly_ overextended her own motion deliberately so that her lighter strike fell against the weak bit of blade she _knew_ was there. The odd ripple that meant the folding while it was forged hadn't gone as well as it could have.

His blade broke and he stared at it astounded and pleased and terrified all at once. She straightened and held her sword down and pointed away politely as she fixed him with an expectant look.

"Ha!" he exclaimed triumphantly. She raised a single eyebrow curiously and he grinned widely at her. "You only went and broke it! Look at that! Am I a great teacher or what?"

Her lips quirked faintly at the amusement and pride that played across his face. Then her attention was caught by the sound of feet rapidly approaching from the corridor and she tilted her head in the direction of the door even as the amusement on Walter's expression faded and that sombre _resignation_ flickered into his eyes.

"Listen, there's something…" he began hesitantly and Rose turned to watch Eliot burst into the practice room gasping for breath and terror rolling off him in waves she could practically smell.

"Walter! You have to come quickly." She shifted and Eliot's eyes found hers. There was relief in his gaze now – the terror and anxiety vanished in an instant when he saw his best friend. It pleased her to no end that he trusted her so explicitly. "Both of you," he added quickly, holding out a hand as if to escort her as he'd done teasingly that very morning. She ran a hand down the short ruffled dove-gray skirt she was wearing (practical, for her lesson) and nodded a short affirmation.

Eliot flashed a quick thankful grin and dashed down the hall with Walter hot on his heels. She followed at a more sedate pace and wondered if she could convince Logan that it wasn't wasteful in the slightest to burn the frilled white and blue monstrosity the seamstress had sent up to the castle.

"What's happened?" Walter asked seriously as they went.

"Outside the castle," Eliot explained. "It looks like a demonstration."

Rosalyn hummed thoughtfully – more curious than worried. But Walter reacted as though the news was dire. "This is not good." She frowned only very slightly. She'd already scolded the kitchen staff for propagating rumours and she could hardly let him get away with doubting her brother's decisions _now_ just because he was an old friend to the deceased Hero Queen.

"They're right inside the castle grounds," Eliot explained needlessly as they came up to the long front windows and Rose decided she couldn't be bothered to say anything. She glanced at the guards and their vaguely nervous expressions and almost wished for another pointless lesson on swordplay. _Boring_. "I've never seen so many people out there."

"Balls!" the abrupt curse made Rosalyn huff distaste. "I should've known this would happen. I don't think they realize what your brother is capable of; this is not going to end well."

She sincerely hoped Walter would begin making sense soon. Her brother was the _King_. Who cared what he did with his subjects? Besides, if they didn't like him ruling they could rule the damn Kingdom by themselves. Then _they_ could deal with the horrid amounts of paperwork she'd seen keeping him up until the wee hours of the morning. Reaver pressed his furry body against her side and she absently scratched his ear. His long pink tongue lolled out and he yawned at the two hastily conversing men before her.

"Let's go while we can," Eliot murmured to her, grabbing her hand and tugging her towards the stairs. Rosalyn blinked out of her thoughts and peered at him absently – noting that Walter had disappeared. He wanted something? "To find out what your brother is going to do," he said – correctly interpreting the blank look she'd given his statement.

"Oh." Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "He's probably in the war room with the elite guards," she offered.

"Then let's go before anyone sees us," his grin was mischievous even through his nerves and she laughed lightly, stepping quickly after him, and quieting in amusement when he made a shushing motion. "Quick, you can see them!" He looked ridiculous peering through a keyhole and Rosalyn made no motion to join him.

"Why do we care?" she asked softly. The brief amusement at her friend's excitement had worn off almost immediately. Eliot was listening to the conversations she couldn't make out from where she was standing and he gasped suddenly at something. Her attention shifted abruptly. It hadn't been astonishment in that gasp – it had been fear. Eliot hadn't been properly fearful of Rosalyn _or_ Logan in years.

"He's ordered the guards to shoot to kill. We can't let him kill all those people," he looked up at her and she knew what he was going to ask. Rosalyn's eyes were golden brown and dark, her lips a thin line, as Eliot spoke. "You're his sister; maybe he'll listen to you. We have to _do_ something."

She opened her mouth to respond when the doors swung open abruptly. One of the guards scowled at her and she curled her lip in an automatic response – twisting her usually soft features into something wicked and deadly. He paled and stepped away to reveal her and Eliot to Logan and Walter. Walter who was, she noted with immediate displeasure, fallen hard on his hands and knees on the floor. Her brother sucked in a harsh breath and she looked up at his stony and furious countenance.

That fury was hiding betrayal. Her lip lowered slower than she'd intended it to. Betrayal at what? A coil of vague interest twined and she blinked at her brother's harsh, "What are _you_ doing here?" He visibly drew his temper back and continued in a would-be calm voice. "The War Room is no place for a child. Leave now."

* * *

Eliot knew immediately that Logan had picked the wrong words. The King did too, from the sudden alarm that flashed across his eyes before he hid it away. But Rosalyn had latched onto that weakness and she _purred _"Child?" innocently at him. The guards nearest her flinched and her spine straightened into an elegant posture that brought her decidedly womanly features on display while simultaneously forcing all attention to fixate on what she was saying.

"I'm here to stop you, Logan," she declared finally. Eliot wasn't sure if he was glad she was going to do something or terrified. Queen Sparrow had been careful to keep her children from competing with one another for a reason. Logan was stubborn and impulsive just as Rosalyn was but _she_ always seemed to be able to grasp _precisely_ what would happen as a consequence of whatever action she took to achieve her goals. "You cannot kill those people."

"No, wait…" Walter said plaintively, softly pleading with the Princess. Eliot winced at the dark look that crossed the faces of both siblings.

"Enough!" Logan snapped irritably. "How dare you turn against me?" he added to Rosalyn.

Rose hissed at him. "How _dare_ I?"

He snarled. "Perhaps you think _you_ should be the one making the decisions!" Her eyes were all _gold_ and Eliot trembled when she reared back as if struck. "You really wish to defend those traitors? Then so be it." He raised a single hand and the men in the room snapped to attention. Rose was all coiled energy at the movement and the young man frantically tried to get her attention without drawing attention to himself.

Rose did _not_ respond well to provocation. She most certainly would not take well to her own brother challenging her after she'd so placidly gone along with everything _else_ he'd demanded of her – not the _least_ of which would be giving up meeting with Reaver.

When the gloved fist closed, hands grasped the arms of Eliot and Rosalyn. Her expression shuttered and blanked and then she was all cool calmness and a perfectly stony façade. It wasn't even a deliberately forced expression; Eliot could not tell if she was annoyed and hiding it to see what her brother was up to or if she honestly had stopped caring or if she had really **never** cared at _all._

"Let us see how you do," the King declared. "Take my sister and her friend to the Throne Room. We shall settle this matter officially."

If the King was the unstoppable force then the Princess was an immovable object. She held her place as though the guards attempting to escort her out weren't even there. Reaver was silent but his hackles were raised and his eyes were fixated on his mistress for any sign of a threat to her person. The Princess stared at her brother for what felt to Eliot like an age before she dipped her head and turned. The guards holding her arms still had to move quickly to keep up the appearance that they had been the ones to convince her to move rather than it being her decision.

As they were escorted, Eliot chanced a look over at the ramrod straight back of Rosalyn. She didn't even look at him. There was a distant threat looming behind her expression that he _knew_ meant that, whatever she decided to do, Logan was **going** to regret _ever_ causing his sister to challenge his authority.

**End**


	12. Choose

**AN: So I picked up driving much quicker than anticipated. My pity-party ended after two sessions with my mother and I've been driving ever since. I even went to the beach just yesterday. Word of advice: always go to the beach on weekdays instead of weekends. Grand Bend, at least, was almost _empty_ in comparison to a weekend. Wonderful day all around with only a touch of a burn on top of existing and mostly-recovered burns. **

**I didn't kill Eliot. I never planned on killing Eliot. Killing him (or Elise, if you play as a male) always makes that one quest a very awkward thing. Some random person you've just met and not even talked to declares their love for you? Over someone they've loved for a while? Honestly. I couldn't imagine writing that without making some stupid parody and ruining the flow of every other chapter I've written. **

**I should mention I have nothing against parodies. Just, it wouldn't suit this _particular_ fanfic, ne?**

**As always, reviews are appreciated. I hope you like it! **

* * *

**Choose**

He fell when the guard shoved him to the floor but the guard scrambled backward when Rose turned and snarled at him. It was an utterly inhuman sound and, even when she'd been satisfied that the guard was a sufficient distance away, a low echo of it rang in Eliot's ears. Eliot resisted the instinctive urge to tremble when he felt her hands gently tug him back to his feet. Her expression was worried but her eyes were hard and blank.

"Alright?" she asked softly.

"I'm fine," he murmured back. She nodded and stood up, tilting her head at him and letting a sweet smile bloom to life. It disturbed him – but not more than the flash of fangs from Reaver and the golden-brown flashing golden in the light streaming from the windows behind the throne.

"Don't worry," she said reassuringly, "whatever happens, we'll get through this together." Eliot heard the promise behind the promise. She wasn't going to let Logan dictate anything to her again – not now when he'd threatened two of _her_ companions.

"Here come the saviours of the people," the King drawled. "Come closer, sister," he added in his silkiest voice.

Rosalyn wasn't in the room anymore. This was all the Princess. And the Princess was terrifyingly calm. She walked forward as though it were any other day and didn't even react to the refusal to grant her a seat as she usually claimed.

"Today you have disappointed me beyond measure. I have been betrayed by my own blood…and a filthy spy."

He felt irritation rise to life. The Princess was watching him expectantly and he bristled at Logan's words. "We did nothing wrong."

"Punishment must be apportioned where it belongs," Logan continued with a dark look that made Eliot quiet immediately. Logan rarely had cause to be annoyed with him and being under the brunt of his fury was intimidating.

"Punish me then," said the Princess flippantly. She absently pulled her long hair forward over one shoulder and finger-combed it.

The King stood and walked towards her and she held his gaze even as she continued her absent motions. "You are no longer a child, and it is time I stopped treating you as one." The side doors opened and Eliot froze when he recognized a handful of the protestors ushered in at gunpoint. Rosalyn didn't even look at them and Eliot wished fervently that she would at least _react_ to what was rapidly spiralling out of anyone's control. "You wished to save the traitors who had gathered outside this castle this morning. Very well. You shall have your chance to save them."

"Oh?" Rosalyn queried in a high, beautiful, and completely and utterly composed voice.

The King gestured imperiously. "Here stand the leaders of the violent mob. I will give you a choice." Rosalyn raised an eyebrow. "Who will be punished? These strangers, or this _boy_? The sentence will be death."

He felt his heart stop. No. No, no, _no_. He turned in a wild-eyed motion to the Princess and she had that politely curious expression on her features that she usually used when she'd been asked a question she felt was redundant. "No…this can't be!" he tried to get her to look at him – tried to get her to do _something_ to stop the words still coming from Logan's mouth but her expression remained the same.

"I am giving you power over life and death," the King's pronouncement was the first to change the polite expression. Rose finally looked over at him and Eliot reached out desperately. She placed her hand in his and peered at him idly.

The whole situation was horrible. Rosalyn flashed him a faint smile and turned to her brother. "I won't do this," she said simply. She looked bored. Bored and indifferent. The protestors would have heard a sincere refusal to play into Logan's hands. Only Eliot knew that she was refusing to pick because she was conflicted over making _her_ friend happy by fulfilling his earlier request by the War Room door and making sure that her friend remained _alive_. She wouldn't care if the protestors died; she _would_ care if her friend was upset.

"If you cannot choose, I will. They will _all_ be executed." Logan's voice lowered for his sister's ears alone. "So tell me, what are you willing to sacrifice to do the right thing?"

"This is madness. We can't – we just can't…" he babbled helplessly and Rosalyn patted his hand gently. He clutched at her hands almost violently and reached out to grab her chin and force her to _really_ look at him. "Choose me," he begged.

He'd been horrified when he'd seen what had become of Bowerstone in the mere year since he'd last visited. His parents had somehow acquired far more servants than he could remember – all terribly young. It was that or the factories, his mother had explained worriedly. They couldn't pay the children much, but they'd always had extra food for them to bring home – or a spare bed for the night if it was absolutely necessary.

Eliot had told Rosalyn about the protests of a dead child. He'd told her what Reaver had ordered. Her expression had brightened immediately at the mention of her old companion and he'd explained the fear and oppression more until the smile had faded and she'd been looking thoughtful. He'd hoped (though perhaps he shouldn't have) that the Princess would understand his horror. That she'd be able to convince the King to stop the madness and rein the bloody Head of Industry back under the Crown's heel.

It was a useless endeavour, he could tell. She blinked at him and frowned. "That is a horrible thing to say," she informed him – vaguely annoyed.

"They have families – loved ones – and there's more of them. One life for all those lives is a more than fair trade," Eliot pleaded. The furrow in her brow deepened as her eyes darkened. The gold was almost gone but her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply. "Are you listening to me?"

"I'm listening," she snapped sharply. "I just don't see why _you_ should die."

"There's only one decision you can make," he snapped back just as sharply. She looked furious for a split second before he explained. "I _want_ to do this. I _want_ to be the one to die if it means they'll be saved. It will make _me_ happy if you do this."

Her mouth closed and her expression shuttered. Nothing was betrayed – not a single twitch or a glint of knowing in her gaze. She had turned fully inward to contemplate his words.

It was the longest wait of his life. Logan was impatient and demanded she make up her mind and she didn't so much as flinch or even blink more than normal. Eliot hesitantly touched her hand and she came back to her body immediately. Then she held his gaze for a second before turning to gesture at the protestors. "Them," she said dismissively and Eliot's world shattered.

As a child, she had been cruel. To be perfectly honest, she was _still_ cruel as a teenager and as the woman she was now. She'd never been cruel because she enjoyed it; rather, it was because it was the simplest way to get what she wanted. The former Queen had encouraged her daughter's exploration of all aspects of her personality. She'd never put down any rules or moral guidelines for the young Princess as she had done for Logan but Eliot – at least – had thought that Rose has blossomed (pardon the pun) into a wonderful person.

She was polite. She anticipated objections and correctly altered her behaviour to satisfy the most or the important people. She detested useless deaths and injuries and actively sought ways to avoid such pleasantries. She spoke out against injustice and convinced her brother more than just once to choose a milder option or a more diplomatic one – though that had, granted, lessened in recent years.

He thought she understood him. He thought that he was a close enough friend – he'd been working up the courage to broach the subject of being _more_ than friends for _weeks_ now – that she had learned to appreciate the bonds between other people. He thought that perhaps she'd finally evolved to the point where her complete apathy towards anything not "_hers_" had vanished.

He was horribly, horribly wrong. "It should be me. Don't do this. _It should be me_."

Her eyes were gold again. She looked at him blankly – vaguely curious – and Logan fixed a bored look on his face as he nodded acceptance to her decision. "The boy lives. Kill the rest now."

"_Please_," he felt his chest tighten painfully and stared at the long brown hair flipped over her shoulder that she was _still_ idly touching. "No!" he felt his heart break and she looked alarmed at the odd choking noise he made.

Her eyes were wide as saucers and any vague emotions were gone behind worry and bewilderment. _I can't forgive you for this, Rose_, he thought. He shook his head and refused to meet her gaze. She tried to reach for his hand but he flinched away violently and felt his fear spike. She froze and her golden brown eyes took in his expression as though it were the most fascinating and unexpected thing she'd seen in her entire life. "Why?" he whispered brokenly. He flinched again when she made another attempt and she abruptly straightened and hissed furiously.

"I will never forgive you for this," she snarled at Logan – whirling to face him with contempt scrawled across her face. She was furious that her seemingly simple decision had actually been a difficult one. Furious that letting her closest friend live meant losing him regardless and furious that Logan had _known_ it.

"Good. Then you will never _forget_ it," Logan stressed in return. He tilted his head in a motion reminiscent of his sister's. "Escort my sister to her chambers. Now."

Eliot watched Rosalyn pull her emotions back. Watched them snuff themselves out under apathy. Only when she was just about to leave the room and she spared a single glance back at him did he understand something very important.

For all that she'd seemed apathetic as a child, she'd still been an inherently _good_ girl. She'd been the pure morality that her mother had fostered despite her physically _evil_ actions. Now though, that apathy was vanishing before his eyes. All that was left was a purely instinctive viciousness – survival at its finest – that reminded him of Reaver.

Worse than Reaver. At least Reaver was selfish. Rosalyn blinked at him and left the room. Rosalyn was purpose now – to what end, he didn't know – but purpose without care or mind or even acknowledgement for how it was achieved. The full brunt of her calculative mind was behind her now – loosed from the leash of false morality.

Rosalyn wasn't bound by social conventions any longer. She'd never _truly_ been bound as it was and now she was completely and utterly _free_.

**End.**


	13. Flickers

**AN: I am completely in love with Gail Carriger. I don't care what any of you are doing; stop right now and go pick up her book Soulless. Read it, fall in love, and then go get the rest of the series currently ending with Heartless. Do it now. **

**Why? Because Lord Akeldama is so ridiculously _dandy_ that you will immediately think of a very effeminate Reaver. Not that Lord Akeldama isn't masculine (because he _is_) but he is very..._dandy_. It has to be italicized like that. It simply doesn't describe him properly otherwise. **

** Reading these books makes me wish I were awesome enough to create characters like him. Alas, all I can manage is a rather odd Princess. **

**As always, reviews are appreciated. Please do enjoy this latest chapter. **

* * *

**Flickers**

It was a misty place that she found herself in. Rosalyn blinked at her surroundings and inspected the glowing seal beneath her feet. It was the Royal seal. Apparently it was a Hero's symbol – not just a family one. How…predictable.

"Hello, Theresa," she said blandly. The Seer dipped her head in greeting.

"Hello Princess," the Seer's voice was whispery and haunting. "I guided your mother in her greatest triumph, but _you_ have an even greater destiny ahead of you."

"Of course," she would have scoffed but she was feeling oddly off-balance with the loss of her companion. It was disconcerting how much she had actually _felt_ for the male.

"The seal awoke at your touch."

"Because I'm a Hero," she tilted her head. "Are you going to tell me things I already know?"

"Hardly." Theresa's lips curled in dark amusement. It reminded Rose of her mother and she belatedly recalled that Theresa had been the one to raise the former Queen. Of course Sparrow had picked up habits from the mystical older woman. "However, unlike your mother, you will need to gather followers and gain the support of the people – not simply find another three Heroes."

Rosalyn frowned rather severely. "I don't want the Kingdom."

"You were born to rule it, regardless," Theresa said mildly, but her voice was firm and commanding. In the mist of the woman's powers, Sparrow's daughter could do naught but nod a sort of resentful assent and peer down the pathway before her. "You have already taken the first step in your journey; walk through the gate and claim your reward."

Between her last word and Rosalyn's next breath, Theresa had vanished from sight – fading away into the mist with only a whisper of her voice as a memory of her presence.

Rosalyn wasn't one for theatrics unless she was the one behind them. However, she had to give the old Seer credit where it was due; the woman certainly could make an exit. She watched the gates swing open and fade at the same time and peered at the single chest sitting in the middle of the wide pathway in the midst of nothingness.

It wasn't a particularly noteworthy chest. Her mother had owned chests gilded in gold and silver and precious jewels. She had jewelled chests filled with _more _jewels. Before her brother had chosen purple as the royal palace colours, the whole place had been gold and silver and beautiful curtains in delicate fabrics that shimmered in the light and did very little to actually cover any of the windows – always flowing about in the most minute of drafts and casting little rainbows on the thick white carpeting when the sun hit the carefully embroidered crystal beads.

Even Wolf's worn leather collar was encrusted with large diamonds. The buckle had been real silver too. Rosalyn's dresses had been in exotic colours and foreign fabrics and their entire library was all _real_ books (as was often exclaimed with almost horrified awe whenever mother threw a party). People came and went in the castle like butterflies and the gardens glittered in blues and greens from the delicately jewelled decorations her mother had arranged throughout the flowers and from the lanterns hanging in the trees.

All of this was to say that Rosalyn was very well acquainted with unique, expensive, and powerful items. The chest before her? It was wood. Plain sanded wood with iron trimming and hinges.

She failed to see how such a chest could possibly contain a _reward_ worth fleeing the castle for. Logan certainly wouldn't care if she stayed. To be perfectly honest, she'd only followed Walter and Jasper because they'd seemed so frantic and serious and she wasn't going to stand for such a thing after the trouble it had caused her with Eliot.

She let her hand brush the lock and it whispered away into nothing. Her brow furrowed of its own accord and she found herself wishing to scowl at such displays of emotion without her express permission. It seemed places like this removed any pretences of inhumanity.

She blamed her father. Dratted man was decidedly _un_heroic.

The gauntlet within the chest, however, caught her attention. She blinked at the ruby that spanned the palm as she dropped one glove to replace it with the new garment. It glowed at her and she watched the flicker of flames reflecting back at her with interest. Designed to channel Will, then? Her mother had never used one.

"The gauntlet will channel the magic within you," Theresa explained blandly. Rosalyn – hardly one for etiquette – still gave her a look that said appearing out of nowhere was rude. Theresa unable to see the motion but still able to know precisely what the Princess was doing, smiled vaguely. "Use it by the tomb in the mausoleum and the way out of the castle will open for you. You will return here when you have gathered enough followers to reach the next gate."

"How utterly _dreadful_," she deliberately adopted Reaver's usual pattern of italicized speech. "Why I absolutely _must_ protest!"

"Protest as you wish," the Seer remained unmoved by the verbal fluttering. Rosalyn suspected she had gotten a touch rusty with her teenage years removed from her dapper dearest's immediate company. The debonair lived in Millwood, didn't he? Surely a visit from a runaway Princess wouldn't be turned away. The fountain of gossip _alone_ would ensure her swift invitation to stay awhile. "Now go. Walter and Jasper will follow wherever you lead. Perhaps, one day, the rest of Albion may do the same."

"Bother," she enunciated to the empty space, watching the gentle wisps flickering off the portal before her. "If I ever get a hold of Eliot, I'm going to rip that boy's heart out of his bleeding chest." Her gauntlet flickered and she glanced at it dismissively. This business with emotions was outright ridiculous without inanimate magical objects giving away any flickering feelings she may or may not have.

* * *

Between one blink of the eye and the next, his charge had lost one of her gloves and acquired a rather eccentric replacement. Jasper held up remarkably to the instant change and watched as her previously polite but bored expression flickered into something dark and angry.

"Princess?" he hedged carefully, eyeing her new accoutrement warily. There was a ruby in the palm. Massive, even by Royal standards, and it was _glowing_. "Rosalyn?" he added, when it appeared her title wasn't going to pull her from her thoughts.

The name did it. She blinked and turned to him. There was nary a flicker of emotion or expression on her face and it frightened him as it had since she'd first adopted the disposition following the events of the Throne Room. Her eyes turned down to the gauntlet on her arm and she held it up to the candlelight to admire it properly. "It is much nicer here," she informed him and Walter absently. "I can feel the fire right…_there_!"

Flames licked at her palms and Jasper was horrified for a moment before he realized it was _Will_ and not spontaneous combustion. The Princess stared at the flames with the little sparkles of light in all manner of colours and her lips curled. It was a deliberate motion; he wasn't sure what point she was making by showing her approval but it was met with enthusiasm from Walter.

He found himself letting out a startled but delighted breath when Rosalyn made a harsh motion with her arms and the flames rose in a bright ring around her body – lighting up a Royal Seal beneath her feet – and causing the floor to pull back in a mechanical motion. Stone ground against stone and a staircase was revealed in the space between the two coffins.

Rose inhaled and then exhaled slowly. "An exit from the castle will open," she murmured. "Of course she would."

The 'she' would be the Hero Queen, Walter was sure. No one else would think to have a mausoleum built over something that would be used – not after her careful excavations of the tombs that had previously been just outside the castle doors. No one wanted a repeat of the infamous Beetle Burning incident. He shuddered to even remember the Queen's delighted laughter as the tombs burned from within.

"I'm sure there aren't any beetles down there," Rosalyn said out of the blue. She wasn't even looking at him – just peering down the staircase. Her eyes were gold and the gauntlet was glimmering in warm fiery tones against her side where her arm lay motionless. "Bats, likely."

"Wonderful." He hoped she hadn't noticed the catch in his voice. The way she brushed her hair away from her face and ignored him meant she had _definitely_ noticed. Blast. "Shall we?" he inquired.

The way she casually flicked a burst of fire at an old brazier did _nothing_ to reassure the older butler that this latest conspiracy of Walter's was going to go well at _all_.

**End.**


	14. Guardians

**AN: Someone wondered what Theresa would be like as a mother. I was going to write something about Sparrow being much younger but then I really wanted to write something that showed the sort of connection/disconnect between Theresa, Sparrow, and the Gypsies. It always seemed odd how you were supposedly raised with the Gypsies and yet could just as easily run about willy-nilly and kill the entire camp (minus children, of course, blast the game). I suppose I wanted to show how such a thing could happen in theory just because of the manner in which Sparrow was raised. **

**I'll likely write more on Sparrow's upbringing later, or her earlier versus later adventuring. Until then though, we have this and probably some more Logan or Rose in the next chapter. I'm undecided as of yet. **

**As always, reviews are appreciated. Many thanks! **

* * *

**Guardians**

Sparrow couldn't remember her parents. She was certain she'd had a pair, at least once, but only Rose would remember such things and her elder sister was long dead.

"What happened to the body?" she asked the calm morning, looking up from fixing Wolf's collar.

Theresa hummed and flipped one of her cards over – Sparrow couldn't be sure but she thought it was The Hermit – tilting her head fractionally in Sparrow's direction. "The city cleaners will have removed it outside of the city limits. They likely buried your sister's body in a mass grave."

"Ah," Sparrow returned her attention to the strip of leather and carefully sharpened the metal studs. It would be exactly her sort of luck to have poor Wolf get mauled just because he wasn't wearing something around his soft throat.

"It is almost summer," Theresa said. Her face remained firmly downturned as she studied her cards with sightless eyes. "Do you have your Caravan ready?"

"'Course," Sparrow scoffed, looking down to where the horses grazed in lazy little groups. There was a brown and white spotted mare down there with gleaming medallions, bones, and beads braided into her mane and it was _Sparrow's_ mare. Not for long though, because Theresa was being unusually careful with her fortune telling and had stopped referring to the horse by name (Chips, if anyone cared to ask – though the Travellers didn't like to admit they'd allowed such a non-Traveller name for one of their horses). "Stig's got a horse for you all set."

Stiggur was a Traveller Sparrow's age. They'd gotten along well as children but Sparrow still occasionally called the people who'd raised her Gypsies like one of the city-folk and the Traveller boy had drifted from her in their adolescence. Still, he respected Sparrow's guardian and took his job as the current equine caretaker seriously enough to make sure the Seer had a proper horse for the journey back North to Bower Lake for the summer months.

"Good." And that was all that the Seer had to say on the matter. Sparrow eyed her sideways a moment and then tossed her head back to face the sun as she whistled loudly. Wolf darted out of the long grass a moment later and dropped his head onto her chest – licking along her jaw and growling.

She put his collar back on and he scratched irritably at it but left it alone when she waved a hand at him sternly. Her boy's winter coat was starting to come in and she ran her fingers through it carefully. It was good they were leaving soon – summer in the North meant it would be winter in the South and she didn't think it would be good to stick around long enough for Wolf to develop a proper winter coat.

"Can we find out where she is?"

"No. It was a long time ago."

Sparrow sighed and flopped backwards. Her long blonde hair was tangled and matted and she dearly needed to brush and braid it but they were months from a city and her pocket was empty. She'd need money for the room and money more for a bath. She supposed she'd just have to tie it back when she found the energy to get up and fetch a spare thong to affix it with.

"You are too pale to have dreadlocks, little Sparrow," Theresa commented blandly. Sparrow scowled at the woman and Theresa made a 'tut' noise in her throat. "Cut it."

"I _like_ it long," Sparrow replied firmly. Theresa drew a card from her newly shuffled deck and flipped it over silently. The Fool winked at her and Sparrow rolled her eyes. The next card was The Wheel of Fortune and the young woman flipped over and peered at Wolf.

The dog stared at her for a moment before he made a chuffing noise and nosed at her hair. She laughed and he darted away to go terrorize the chickens.

"You're a terrible mother, Theresa," the blonde hero declared abruptly.

"I never professed to be your mother."

"No motherly qualities whatsoever," Sparrow continued undaunted by the low warning in the Seer's voice. "I remember being chucked out of your caravan the moment I learned how to ride a horse. It took me three whole weeks to build my own."

"You were perfectly capable of the task."

"Hardly my point," Sparrow said flippantly. "There is only _one_ quality I would consider even remotely motherly."

"Oh?"

"You never share your plans until the last moment." Sparrow flipped the next card in the arrangement over and smiled down at the Judgement. Theresa's lips were pulled into a thin line and she shuffled the cards silently while Sparrow watched with mild interest scrawled across her face. "So, North to Bower Lake?"

"Yes." Theresa inclined her head fractionally.

"To kill Lucien," Sparrow added calmly. The vicious light that flashed across her blue eyes was completely at odds with the ease of her tone but Theresa seemed to know precisely what the young Hero was doing. "I'm going to slaughter him."

"Unless you practice your sword forms, you will hardly slaughter a _chicken_ – let alone Lucien." Theresa had gathered her things and was turning toward her caravan. "Do not disturb me until we reach Bowers Lake. Understood?"

"Of course, Theresa," the blonde got up and lazily threaded towards the horses. "Bower Lake it is."

* * *

Theresa had taught her basic sword forms. She'd used a wooden sword and practiced often enough with Stiggur. The other teen was always wary of learning to use a weapon that required a city to make (the Travellers preferred crossbows as iron dart-heads were hardly difficult to make without a fully-equipped forge) but he'd gamely tried to help her learn. That he would be more capable of defending their Gypsy train was only a mild motivator.

She hadn't understood what being a Hero meant until visiting the Chamber of Fate. Certainly, she'd been better with a sword than Stig but that hardly made her a Hero; she just practiced more than he did – had more of a reason to. After it was like something in her head had clicked.

Standing before Thag's thugs she felt her lips curl into a delighted grin. She could _see_ the way the man on her right was limping and the way the one on the left was favouring his right side. The scattered others looked entirely too confident for their sparse numbers – even against just one rangy girl – but she could _hear_ the ones hiding in the trees just as easily as Wolf did. Her canine partner was pressed low to the ground – lip pulled back to reveal each one of his white, white teeth – and his growl was a noise just beyond hearing like an approaching storm.

"Let's play!" she crowed in delight, and darted into the fray.

Testing herself with a crossbow and a rifle had _nothing_ on the sheer physical joy singing through her veins with each thrust and block. She wasn't exactly fighting expert swordsmen, she knew, but she could see she was outclassed. Or at least, that she would have been if she weren't a Hero. Each motion ingrained itself into her memory; blocking one strike was difficult at first and then almost as easy as blinking a moment later. She whirled faster than the bulkier thugs could keep up and slashed with the rusty sword wildly – letting blood splatter to the ground to the cries of help from the two Travellers captured in the cages. Each strike that landed made the song in her blood louder and brighter and _better_ and she found herself giggling through it all.

She almost missed the last one but she ducked at the last moment. She could thrust upwards and catch him in the belly, she _knew_, but there was a low hum in her mind and so she tucked her chin and felt claws press into her back for a scant moment. She listened with glee to the abrupt howl of pain and scuffle in the dirt that meant Wolf had found his mark.

When Thag emerged she was splattered in gore and he was furious. He was also _huge_. He was at least two heads taller and muscled enough for three men on top of being relatively fast to boot. "Theresa, you've been hitting those 'potions' of yours a little too often if you think I can face _that_," she muttered.

The amusement from the guild seal – a thing that seemed bound to her mind even if it was all the way back at the Chamber – meant Theresa was laughing at her – the bitch. Wolf snarled and pressed against her side. There was a familiar hum at his presence and she glanced down. His golden eyes flashed and she could hear the warning of thunder. She looked up at Thag again and saw the giant bandit she had no hope of beating. Then she _looked_ at him and grinned.

"We're going to have fun, you and I," she laughed and let her Hero blood sing as she fell upon the bandit with Wolf a snarl behind.

**End. **


	15. Akin

**AN: I almost forgot to post a new chapter this week. It's a lucky thing I wanted to take a look at my favourites list and noticed, yes? If anyone was confused by the trip to Fable 2 timeline last chapter, please pay attention to this reminder. While mostly in order thus far, this is a series of interconnected drabbles in no _particular_ order. Meaning, it may be in order _now_ but it won't always be (as evidenced by the last chapter). Occasionally the mood will strike me and I will want to examine something or some event I've already passed chronologically and we'll have a chapter or two return to that timeline before we go back to the present. **

**Now that's been cleared, please enjoy the new chapter. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. Many thanks to those who take the time to review - even if I don't respond, I _really_ do enjoy reading what you have to say. **

* * *

**Akin**

They weren't gypsies. Rose stared blankly down the snowy slope toward the frozen little village and idly brushed some of the light accumulation of snow off her arms. Not gypsies, but travellers nonetheless. Though it appeared they were intending on building a more permanent residence in this location – if the walls and fences were any indication.

The War Room had a map of Albion. The mountains weren't a particularly large stretch but they were rich in resources that she _knew_ the King intended to use. She didn't know why but she attributed it to his general fascination with his standing armies.

"It worked!" she tilted her head at Walter as he incredulously touched his arms and face. Really, a magic gauntlet he could accept cheerfully but a Cullis Gate was beyond belief? He shuddered abruptly as a cold breeze swept through the ruined arches. "I'd forgotten how bloody cold it is up here. Come on, let's hurry and get down to the Dweller Village."

"Not gypsies," she said.

"No." He turned to glance at her and Reaver. The black and white dog had his nose to the wind and was inhaling in great breaths, shifting now and then when he caught scent of something interesting. "The people here call themselves Dwellers. They're tough. They're loyal and, like I told you earlier, they hate Logan's guts."

Reaver snarled sharply at the tone and she watched impassively as Walter paled and hurried down the slope, not looking at her. He would remember that – as displeased as Rose may have been with her brother – she would hardly accept just _anyone_ saying what they pleased about the King.

"It is a tiny village," she said to his back.

"It may not look like much, but this is where the revolution begins."

"I fail to see _how_," she murmured and tapped her leg twice with a forefinger. "Reaver."

The dog was at her side and stalked in her shadow with his gleaming canines peeking from behind a partially raised lip as they entered the little assortment of caravans. The Dwellers whispered and pointed and stayed _very_ clear of Walter and Rose (especially Rose) as they made their way down the beaten pathway towards a particularly grandiose set of caravans all fenced in.

"The King destroyed their forests," Walter explained. Reaver darted forward and sniffed at the gate before circling back to curl himself around her legs – lip raised at the guards. "I knew they'd have a hard time finding food but I didn't think it would be this bad." He was looking out at the village, eyes soft and worried, as he spoke.

There were children among the Dwellers. They were bundled in thick furs and dressed in bright pinks and reds with strange striped scarves as sort of adornments. Rosalyn watched a small girl clutch at a stuffed bear and peer at her and Walter with a hopeful sort of stare. The Princess wondered why any woman would risk bringing a human into a world where they could barely find food for themselves – let alone a growing child. She supposed it was one of those things the peasantry could not afford to choose. More mouths, certainly, but more workers as well – contributing members of the community. The wealthy could afford to decide when a child would be fortuitous for the family – whether to cement a marriage or to arrange unions between families or (not that anyone would admit it openly in court) to cause a scandal for amusement.

"Why will they support this revolution?" Rosalyn asked, turning away from the snowy village and staring at Walter expectantly with flat eyes. He started at her interest but nodded towards the gate, shoving his hands beneath his arms in an attempt to warm them.

"It's not them we need to worry about. The man _we_ need to convince is Sabine – a proud old sod – but a good man and a good leader. He, ah, won't give his allegiance easily – especially to a Princess. Perhaps it's best if I speak to him alone first."

"If you think it is best," Rosalyn inclined her head and returned to peering out at the village. The adults worse stranger fur outfits that bared most of their arms to the cold. How odd.

Walter touched her shoulder and lowered his voice. "Maybe you ought to find some new clothes while I talk with Sabine. Something slightly less…"

Her head turned and she fixed him with what she knew was a disbelieving look. He furrowed his brow at her and she noticed he had more grey hair than she remembered. Fascinating. This revolution of his was long in the making, it seemed, if such signs of stress were so obvious. "I fail to see why I should be forced to change clothing."

"We don't want this kind of attention," he urged insistently. She raised a sceptic eyebrow and he handed her a pouch of gold. It was blue velvet and she accepted it with a faint roll of her eyes. "I only have a little bit," he warned, "but it should be enough. Maybe spread what's left amongst the people? They need it more than we do."

"I suppose," she drawled. "Reaver, we're going to find someone willing to take our gold, doesn't that sound like fun?" Walter winced at the tone and turned to go into the walled off portion of the village. Her canine companion got up and shook the accumulated snow from his fur, turning his gleaming dark eyes upon her expectantly, as his tail swished in slow amusement.

The clothes she ended up buying smelled of wet fur and bitter tannin. In point of fact, they were the _only_ clothes the stall owner had on hand that weren't already promised to another Dweller. The minute she purchased her clothes she walked off to a spot isolated from the rest of the people and felt about for the elusive link in her mind to the guild seal. It warmed and she felt the warmth spread through her limbs and then she was standing in the Sanctuary.

"Interesting," she told Jasper. He smiled wryly at her.

"Indeed. It appears this place exists outside of a normal timeline. You still age normally, however, so I would not recommend remaining within for any length of time if you plan on living out there."

"I see." She realized that Jasper meant he would never leave this place and tilted her head curiously.

"It is my duty, honour, and pleasure to remain here to serve you, Princess," he murmured. "This Sanctuary eliminates the need for all physical needs and bodily functions. It is really a…miraculous thing, Your Highness."

She nodded in response. There was very little she could say to such a statement. "The clothes?" she queried instead.

"Ah yes. Included in the Sanctuary is a dressing room; step through and I'll show you." He indicated the door he was standing beside and she meandered through, listening to his steps as he followed and then continued past her to stand beside a mannequin with all of the things she'd just purchased neatly laid out and no longer smelling of a tannery.

Jasper just smiled mysteriously at the long look she graced the clothes and then the butler with. "I've taken the liberty of laying out your clothes on these mannequins. Why don't you change into your new…Dweller outfit."

The leggings were loose and ill-fitting compared to the ones she had worn that morning. The boots were deliciously warm though so she _almost_ forgave the rough fur and tight bindings on her calves. The red skirt seemed unnecessary but Jasper let a moue of distaste when she tried to leave it behind so she put it on as well. The long patchwork coat left her arms bare to the air but the thick fur lapels and the extra length of cloth around her waist with the _ridiculously_ large ornamented buckle kept the bulk of her body warm. The gloves weren't as soft as she would have liked and she wrinkled her nose at them before emerging from behind the screen.

"Help put my hair up," she commanded. She would rather have forgone the head wrap but it appeared a cultural thing and it would hardly do to forget it. Jasper was very efficient in tucking every last wisp of hair beneath the reddish cloth.

"There you are," he declared finally, "you look just like a Dweller. I hope this new outfit is as comfortable as your royal attire, although I suspect the chances of that are quite low."

She stared flatly. He nodded his sympathy to her plight and gestured silently to the central room. She used the map table and returned to her hidden corner of the village to see everything mostly as she had left it.

It seemed time went quicker in the Sanctuary – not a complete stand-still as Jasper thought, but very close to it. She heard him absently telling her it was time to re-join Walter to speak with Sabine. She plucked at the new clothes and glanced at her dog. Reaver appeared not at all disoriented with the abrupt trip to and from the Sanctuary though he seemed wary of the clothes she now wore. He sniffed at the boots and chewed on a scrap of fur before coughing and wandering away. She blinked and turned her gaze back up the hill to Walter, tucking the gold coins in their pouch deep within one of the pockets on the coat where she intended for it to remain untouched until she left this miserable little village.

Honestly, the things she did for her old mentor. These not-gypsies had best be _very_ good allies to require such _hideous_ clothes.

**End.**


	16. Lost

**AN: Almost forgot to finish this. I'm not at all happy with the end, by the way, but it will have to do. I simply couldn't think of a different way to put the ending and I wasn't going to make anyone wait another week while I figured it out and started a half-dozen other chapters only to get annoyed at those too. **

**So, there we have it. Enjoy the latest chapter and (as always) reviews are appreciated. Many thanks for those people who reviews the last chapter - always a pleasure. **

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**Lost**

It was those _eyes_. Gold, gold, gold endless seas of gold hidden behind _darkness_ like a living thing writhing and curling and horrible. The thing that was once his sister stared at him when he came to her room – ordering Walter, the guards and Jasper out so he could speak with her in private.

He'd never understood her request for the only room in the castle that couldn't be directly accessed from the castle. When it rained, she had to be escorted to bed with an umbrella. When it snowed, she had to bundle up in furs and boots just to walk across the courtyard and up a few flights of stairs. Excepting the secret passage their mother had bricked up in her declining years, there was only one inconvenient entrance to the Princess' bedroom.

She hadn't changed clothes – still the simple blouse with that strange new fashion of the bustier on the outside, the short skirt over dove-grey tights and tall supple boots – but she somehow looked more intimidating in the flickering light of the dying embers in her fireplace. He crossed the room to prod a new log into place and took some comfort in the flare of red and orange and _not_ gold before he turned back to his sister.

Rose had dark eyes just as he did – a stark contrast to early paintings of their mother where her eyes were soft and blue. The Queen had several portraits with her rather…unique physical features removed. She always seemed so amused at the sight of those paintings – she spent hours peering up at them. When Logan had been younger, she'd wondered out loud if perhaps her second child would have the pretty blue eyes of her youth.

Rosalyn had blues eyes as a baby but they'd darkened to a deep honey-brown that seemed far darker than they actually were when she was several months old.

Times like now, Rosalyn's eyes were _gold_. The honey flecks seemed magnified and flared brightly in the light. He hoped it was just the light – his mother's crimson was a careful remembrance – and he watched the way she had primly curled her legs beneath her.

She looked ubiquitously girlish in the way she let her head fall into her palm and the way her hair was braided loosely and held back with a silly looking headpiece he knew Jasper had convinced her to wear. The way her lips curled was decidedly vicious.

"King," she said. Not 'brother' as she often said fondly nor even his name. Just his title. It tore at his heart more horribly than her sudden refusal to obey him with the mob that morning.

"Rose," he said in return. Her head tilted in her palm and she flashed her teeth at him in a cruel parody of what was once a smile. "Do you understand why I did what I did today?"

"Understand," she repeated. Her voice lacked inflection. Worse still, it sounded as though she had no concept of feeling. Alien and cold. "They were watching. Must be firm."

"The guards, yes, but the people cannot rebel. What I do for this kingdom…you must understand, Rose, I have its best interests at heart."

"I know." There would have been annoyance but she just blinked at him – a slow brush of dark lashes against her pale cheek. "Eliot is angry and sad. With me."

He hesitated and approached the bed, sat on the corner gingerly, and reached out to her. She leaned back slightly and he winced. He withdrew and roughly pulled off his leather gloves and reached out again; his hands were rough and covered in hundreds of little silvery scars – it looked like he'd shoved them into a pile of knives and waved them about wildly.

She let him touch her face this time. He brushed his hands along the hair framing her eyes and let out a shuddering breath before he leaned forward and brushed his lips across her forehead. "Rose," he said softly, "please stop this."

"There is nothing objectionable for me to stop, King," she replied. She was meeting his gaze but she wasn't _looking_ at him. And by Avo he wished she would use _any_ of the proper forms of address if it meant she would stop calling him _King_.

"Rosie," he said her name in a voice that caressed the syllables and tore at the soul, "please forgive me."

Reaver snarled at him. The Princess did not move so much as a single muscle. The dog interjected himself between brother and sister and gleaming white fangs stood out against bright pink gums as the dog revealed every single one of his teeth to the King in a horrible, wrinkling, _evil_ growl.

"Please excuse us, King," the Princess said. "I am terribly tired."

* * *

She was gone by morning. He had expected she would distaste his presence. He had _hoped_ that she would simply refuse to play at loving him. He supposed that, in his anger, he'd forgotten that she'd only reacted to the mistreatment of Walter. She didn't _care_ about what came after – that had been all his response – she'd just been annoyed that _his_ guards had harmed _her_ tutor.

Walter, he knew, wanted a kingdom led by a monarch such as his mother. He wanted a Hero and all that was good and right and _perfect_ about one. Rosalyn wasn't a Hero; Logan had seen no evidence that she was. However, she was exceptionally good at things she cared to practice – genius, was the term used by her various instructors – and she looked the part. She was all soft curves and easy smiles and bright eyes.

Logan on the other hand was harsh lines, severe looks, pale and gaunt. He was suited to statues – cold and frozen and immobile – whereas Rosalyn was a task in capturing her spirit and putting it into whatever medium you could before the static made you realize nothing could quite compare to the original.

Jasper had gone with his charge and for that Logan was grateful. Whatever Walter was planning, Jasper would only ever put Rose's best interests first. He would make sure that the scheme of the old soldier's would not take advantage of his dearest sister.

Still, the loss of her hurt. It hurt almost more than hearing her sweet soft voice call him 'King' in a tone devoid of emotion. It hurt in ways he had never imagined. He'd seen the _Thing_ in Aurora and it had peered into his soul and found him lacking. The sting of surviving where his men had all died – the ache and wrench of stumbling blind into that city and promising to Kalin's _face_ that he would protect her people and _knowing_ he would return home and do _nothing_ – none of that compared to the feeling of losing his sister.

Avo, he what he would give to just _explain_ to her what was wrong. But she was his little sister. He'd promised to protect her above all others. Promised that no harm would ever come to her while he still breathed. If she knew about that Darkness…she would be hurt. Hurt that he'd not shared with her. Hurt that their mother's Albion was threatened and she could do nothing. He couldn't do that to Rose. He just couldn't.

"Majesty?"

He looked up at the unfortunate messenger. It was one of his personal guards – the Elite – and the purple of the uniform stood out in stark contrast against the white curtains. He'd kept those curtains because Rose had always loved them – the way they cast little rainbows across the carpets when the sun was at that perfect angle in the evening.

"There will be no search party," he said at last. The catacombs under the tomb were expansive, dangerous, and hopelessly twisting. There had to be hundreds of ways out and any one of them could have been used by Walter. He wouldn't waste his men's time. "However, if my sister is seen I would…" He hesitated. There was no way to put this without seeming sentimental before his men. Weak. He forced his face to remain impassive – forced the tremble from his voice – "I would like it seen to that she is left alone. Just bring word of her whereabouts and the general look of her – healthy, happy and such. Tell me if Sir Walter or her retainer, Jasper, is with her."

"Yes, Sire," the guard bowed and was gone.

Logan watched him go and then turned to continue looking out the window. He hoped that, wherever she was, she was at least happier.

**End.**


	17. Fours

**AN: Bit of a wait this time, I'm aware. I do apologise for that; I had been camping this week and had no access to the internet nor a computer to write a new chapter. **

**This is a bit short, I'll admit, but I didn't really want to write much more than this concept. It struck me after I watched the trailer for the new Fable game that's coming out. "The Journey" or some such thing it's called. The idea of Heroes being _created_ rather than born and the differences between them. Not that I went overmuch into a comparison but I somewhat explained how I figure it works. **

**As always, reviews are appreciated. **

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**Fours**

Reaver hummed thoughtfully at the nobles assembled before him and kept his eyes trained studiously forward. The wide windows at the end of the room gave him a clear view of the Princess in the gardens – though of course it only looked like he was bored. The stammering began to get annoying and the King dismissed the room for the day.

"You must stop that," the King ordered darkly.

Reaver shrugged elegantly. He could hardly stop being _impressive _when it was his natural state of being. Logan sighed and muttered something about leaving Reaver to look over the documents on his own and left the room, shutting the doors behind him with a sharp snap.

He returned immediately to peering out at Rose.

The girl looked politely interested in whatever the noblewoman with her was saying. He'd slept with the woman but he couldn't for the life of him remember her name. He did, however, recall that she enjoyed rambling on about each and every little change to her manor that she could recall at any given moment. The Princess was clearly being bored to tears.

Not that Rosalyn would shed tears, he amended to himself. Really, it was almost disturbing the level of interest he held for the _blooming_ (ha! His own wit astounded him) young Rose.

Reaver was only a handful of years into this new life of his. Giving up his pirating and his ship had been difficult but really only a mild annoyance. He missed the freedom to do as he pleased sometimes, or the rocking of his boat, or the rows and rows of innkeeper's daughters. Bowerstone Industrial was a fair trade though – especially with Logan so _desperate_ for funding that he was willing to place jurisdiction over almost all dealings in the city under Reaver's control. It amused him to watch the little folk dance to his rapidly changing tune.

Sparrow's daughter was very much like him in that respect. Even restricted as she was to the Castle, the entire staff and guests fell into the neatly ordered places she arranged for them.

Logan, for instance, was King; he ruled on problems and arranged laws and decided where funding from the treasury would go. That funny little butler of theirs was in charge of the Castle staff and that fat old man had been appointed advisor by Sparrow years before Logan ever took her place. But all of those positions were really reacting to the whims of the Princess.

Jasper (he _did_ know the man's name, it seemed) had raised the Princess in her parents' and then her brother's absence. There was a paternal sort of caution in the way he hovered in the doorway to the kitchens so he could keep an eye on Rose in the gardens while still overseeing the staff. All it would take would be an absent comment from the girl for Jasper to rearrange things to her liking; he wanted to ensure her utmost happiness after all of her _perceived_ losses.

Walter had been a soldier once upon a time, under Queen Sparrow. The Hero Queen had holed up in his little coastal paradise for a time and she'd gleefully informed him that she'd shut down the smuggling trade in the area and was planning on returning to Bowerstone with the (then considerably younger) soldier who'd come to fetch her in Bloodstone. They wanted to make her Queen, you see, and she would have a _Castle_ once the reconstruction was complete and so she hardly needed his quaint little manor anymore.

She also took his diary, as he recalled, and she delighted in withholding it from him. He huffed to himself because thoughts of the diary inevitably made him think of the girl and her sweet soft smile as she gleefully explained her latest plan to convince Logan to allow her entrance to the old study within which it was likely kept.

Such a smile, he mused, lips curling at the thought.

It had been such a long time since he'd been properly amused. Before her, the last bit of amusement he'd found had been discovering the Hero blood in his veins.

"It always breeds true," he murmured thoughtfully. "Such a curious thing that no one else notices. Perhaps a defense mechanism…?"

He could never tell anyone, but he truly did miss Sparrow. Perhaps the blind seer would know of the Old Traditions, but he doubted the former Queen had ever noticed. She was _so_ devoted…

Heroes, he had learned (through many long years of crafty and illegal means), were born in fours. Skill, Will, Strength and their Fourth. Sparrow had been his Fourth; she was the one born to equal all their powers and bring them together. In days of old, the Heroes guild had been a gathering place for those of the blood and they were placed into their Fours by older Heroes until the correct formation was found.

Now, without the Guild, any of Hero blood had to find their own _on_ their own. They could ignore the urge, of course, as Reaver had for years (though, to be fair, at least half his Four hadn't been born as he'd been growing up) but it was more difficult without a multitude of Heroes to thin the call throughout.

Heroes were few and far between now, though. Garth had a multitude of adoptees in Samarkand but was unable to produce any offspring of his own; Hannah had made her vows of celibacy many years ago and had upheld them until her death a scant few years before. Reaver hadn't had any children and did not plan on it. Sparrow, their precious Fourth, had been the only one to bring any little ones into the world.

And of those little ones, only one was a Hero.

"Such a pity," he drawled lazily. "I _do_ wonder what our lovely Seer will have to say when the last of our blood dies."

He doubted that there were any other Heroes left in the world. Little Rosalyn would likely live her whole life without finding her other three. Though, _Reaver_ himself would attempt to remain nearby. It was a balm to know of another Hero and soothed the twinge of loss that came from finding his Four and losing them.

Which is not to say that he _cared_ that they had died. They were mildly amusing at best and entirely too _good_ at worst. He had heard from Sparrow that the other two had died and he hadn't cared in the slightest. He'd nodded politely and made a rude joke and the former Queen had laughed and then banned him from the Castle for a month to mourn them in peace.

Really, it seemed the Bowerstone Royals just couldn't take a joke; Logan had forbidden his sister from visiting just because they got along. He wondered idly if Rosalyn had ever held a grudge and dismissed the thought almost immediately. That girl wasn't likely to hold a grudge over anything – she saw everything as entertainment and would hardly _care_ what others thought of her.

The papers before him rustled as a servant opened the windows. He sighed theatrically and delighted in the frightened squeak and hurried rush of feet from the room. He looked up again and Rosalyn wasn't outside.

"Suppose I could work then," he muttered.

"Suppose you could," Rosalyn murmured from the doorway as she passed. She didn't look at him or even pause to hear a response but continued on her way as if he didn't exist.

"Begging your pardon, Master Reaver," the little butler breathed, "but the Princess wanted this room cleaned for a card party later and I had no idea you were still here; she wanted it done immediately, sir."

"Yes, yes," he waved a fluttering hand and got up. "Have those sent to my Manor, would you?" He left before he got an answer.

He would never admit it, but the loss of Rosalyn's company almost equalled the loss of Sparrow.

**End.**


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